


Turtledoves

by DeathCadet



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - All Media Types, The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Canon, Angst, Angst and Porn, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Dark Fantasy, Escape, F/F, F/M, Historical Accuracy, Historical Fantasy, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light BDSM, Major Original Character(s), Medieval, Middle Ages, Multi, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Period-Typical Racism, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Romani Character, Sex Work, Softcore Porn, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Women Being Awesome, Women's Rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 99,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23103127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathCadet/pseuds/DeathCadet
Summary: AU - Disney Elements mixed with the Original Novel. "Disney Presents Victor Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame". Original character heavy, Clopin focused. Originally posted in 2009, since rewritten and completed.A Turtledove is a term adorned to a female thief who stole from the homes in which she worked. And Gypsy is a term adorned to... well...
Relationships: Claude Frollo/Clopin Trouillefou, Claude Frollo/Original Character(s), Clopin Trouillefou/Original Female Character(s), Clopin Trouillefou/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warning- Underage tag: A plot line later in the story concerns underage dynamics and child abuse. Please do not read on if this is upsetting content for you.
> 
> **Rape/Non con tag - As mentioned below, due to the research done concerning the treatment of women during the middle ages, some moments concern sexual assault. As well, I have had comments that the consensual relationships in the story were still heavy and difficult to process for some readers due to the circumstances of the story.
> 
> Additionally, please do not read if the mistreatment of women and minorities is upsetting content to you. Due to the world and tone of Hunchback (I guess not so much the Disney version), accuracy of a woman's situation and the treatment of Romani people were heavily researched. It is not pleasant stuff, and this fanfic goes to some dark and painful places because of it. 
> 
> That being said it is not gratuitously violent in my opinion. Enjoy!

It is hard to point to the beginning of my story, as it is one that has had many different beginnings to many different paths. Most have been short- roads that emerged from thick woods filled with dense brush only to drop off into darkness, or fields of dried earth. Thinking back, the closest day I can trace to the start of it all was a cold and dark morning in late autumn.

The home of Jacques Desmarias, a clerk for the Royal Prévot, lay on the left bank of the river. It was a long walk from the room which I shared with several other young women who also worked for households in Paris. As a servant to the clergy and not nobility, we were not afforded lodging, and instead I was to arrive before the first bell of the great cathedral of Notre-Dame-de-Paris rang in the morning. It was early enough that the normally crowded streets of the right bank- where the densely packed wood and mud homes of all who worked, their lives trapped within the city walls day after day, met the merchants who sold their wares in the market that surrounded the river- were almost peaceful. It was also long enough that the heavy rains of the autumn day had already soaked through my clothing as I crossed over the stone bridge towards the rows of town homes where the clergy lived. Pulling my hood up further, I tried to save what I could of the front of my dress.

I approached the large, intricately carved wooden door and pressed my palms against it, smacking it hard. Following the deep thudding sound, the street was again quiet save for the sound of the heavy raindrops as they fell to the cobble stone. I glanced back to the street, the overhang from the entrance way just barely shielding my face from the pouring rain. My breath left my lips and joined the rain, floating between the wet lines. After a moment the door slowly opened and a servant carefully peered out at me with tired, fearful eyes before stepping aside so I could enter.

The home was warm, and peaceful. The smell of wood filled the hall by the doorway and lofted up to the tall ceilings of the town house. It was unlike peasants homes, dirt and hay did not cover their floors, straw and mud did not sit above them, packed together and often leaking between the wooden beams held as ceilings. I shivered in the doorway, the chills touching my wet clothing before I followed the woman through the kitchen. Here, there was more movement. Cooks prepared food while servants had begun to sleepily arrive, were assigned tasks and then quietly began their days. I removed my cloak and placed it on a row of iron spikes with the others, removing a linen apron and tying it around my back.

My sleeve dripped down my arm and onto the spotless stone floor beneath me. The cold had sunk into my bones now, a chill that would be impossible to be rid of, and I had just begun the day.

After hours of scrubbing at the stone floors, I crossed back through the hallway towards the kitchen once again. Feeling an intense gaze upon me, I glanced to the stairs of the household to see Jacques Desmarias himself standing near the top, staring down at me. I had come to the home of the royal clerk to fill the spot of another girl who had been there before me. This had been the first time I think he had seen me, though I had been there for several months at that point. When I had first arrived in the residence, I had overheard the other servants speaking of the girl whose place I had taken. She had been young- younger than me, and had been forced to leave when her pregnancy began to show. Amongst the servants it was known that the child had been of the Desmarias clerk, but as it had come to be evident, she was cast out of the home. Like so many before here, I assumed.

Desmarias' beady eyes squinted at me and the chill from my clothes returned as he leaned over to the man who attended him and spoke quietly to him. I was almost in the kitchen when the man called out to me, and asked that I present myself at the bottom of the stairs.

Slowly I obliged, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I kept my eyes cast down, as he towered above me on the steps.  
"Monsieur Desmarias demande si vous pourriez être plus à l'aise dans des vêtements secs." The servant asking on Desmarias' behalf if I would have been more comfortable in drier clothes caused my lips to tighten. I shook my head slightly and responded.  
"Non, merci mon seigneur." I responded and lifted my skirt to a curtsy to him before turning to leave.  
"Mademoiselle!" Desmarias himself called out to me. I turned back and looked up to him. Bemusement had crossed long and daunting features. He descended from the top step, slowly, until he stood on the one just in front of me. A well trimmed beard clung to his top lip, his light hair slickly pulled back behind his ears. Most frightening were his eyes- they shifted between striking blue and pale, lifeless grey. "From where is your accent?" His English was polished and rolled off his tongue, but stood behind a thick French accent. His directness caused me to look to the far corner of the stairs, heat gracing my cheeks. I knew that this was part of it for him, the embarrassment it caused us. I hesitated for a moment before responding.

"Ludlow, England, my lord." I had lied. I felt his eyes fill with a passive suspicion, overtaken with the amusement he found, like a barn cat with its paw over a mouse drawing out its slow death.  
"Enchanté." The greeting poured out of his mouth like smoke. His eyes swallowed my face and moved down to my bodice, which hung damply to my skin. I forced a pleasant smile onto my face and curtsied once again.

"Avec ta journée." His attendant had ordered on his behalf, and I obliged, trying to walk as though my heart wasn't beating strongly in frustrated defiance.

There had been no doubt in my mind that Desmarias had fathered the child of the girl who came before me. She, like so many others, had come to Paris from the country. Her family, if she had one, had been unable to secure a dowery for her, and therefore she could not find a man to marry her. I knew the story very well, as each of the several girls with whom I lived with in a room on the right bank of the city had shared this same fate. The cities offered prospects for work that the country did not, though, it had been quite a long time since I had lived outside of a city. Work had been more available. Protection, however, was never afforded to us. Being seduced by the wealthy clerk which you served would have been an all too promising proposition for a young girl. Where she was now- pregnant, or with a child, and unmarried, caused me to shudder. To them, we were a symptom of the densely packed city- vermin for which they could do what they wished.

I clenched my jaw as I walked through the kitchen, now walking to the back of the room where the laundry had been hung up to dry, inside from the rain. Several other servants worked the linens for the household with potash, slapping the fabric onto thick slabs of stone. I rolled up my damp sleeves and assisted them, the cold water of the laundry seeping further into my bones.

Later, I helped in changing the linens of the chambers upstairs. After helping the girl with me pull the bed covering up over the bed of the lord and lady of the home, I lingered in the room, watching as the other servant girl left quickly. I glanced at some of the belongings of the lady of the house, noticing an accumulation of dust on a hand mirror that lay delicately on a table in the large room. Impulsively, I took it from the ledge and slid it in between my apron and my under dress- where I collected valuables from within the large townhouse throughout the day. Not always did I have an opportunity to take something from the chambers of the lords and ladies themselves, but usually there was silverware, or candle sticks, or other small, forgettable valuables I would be left alone with for so long. My hands had grown quick from my additional profession over the years, and it was difficult for the belonging's owners to recall most of their possessions.

The weekly two pence we made as servants- or two livres, in France, had barely paid for the room I shared with several other girls in Paris. Work was twice as hard to find as a singlewoman, even in a city. The additional pay I received didn't pale in comparison to the risks of being caught. Branding, hanging, the stocks. If I had been caught, I'm sure I would regret the permanent mark of a voleur onto my hand for earnings that afforded me one additional meal a week, if I was lucky. But... I hadn't been caught. And there was a small satisfaction in taking from men like Jacques Desmarias in order to survive.

At the end of the long day, my clothing had been mostly dry from the long day, now only slightly damp from the morning's rain. Stepping out into the early evening, it had already fallen dark. I had lasted another day, somehow. Returning to my lodgings, the other girls were completing their chores and preparing for bed. As I took off my damp clothing, I tucked the stolen hand mirror from the home of the clerk Desmarias into a space between my straw-stuffed mattress and the wooden platform that it lay on, where I would store stolen objects. I stopped as I caught my reflection in the underside of the ornate hand mirror as I had turned it over.

It had been a time since I had seen my own face beyond it peering back at me in dark, murky puddles in the street. The dim light of the rush in the room caused light shadows across my face. My own green eyes stared back at me, tired, and strange. I touched the bottom of my light hair- frowning as my hand approached my face. Something about it felt disconnected, that it was not myself who stared back at me... but someone completely different. I had been living as a servant, an orphan, and a thief, for so long sometimes it took me by surprise to realize there was truly a face to my person, and not just the titles that I held in this life.

The sound of footsteps caused me to clumsily shove the mirror into its place with the small collection of other valuables, rearranging the outer sack to conceal the slit in the side of the mattress. I climbed onto it and pulled the rough woollen blanket over me. I took one last, deep breath that evening before falling quickly into a bottomless well of sleep.


	2. Stolen

The older woman winced at herself as she turned the mirror in her weathered hand, flipping it over quickly to avoid the reflective material on the underside of it. The corner of my mouth lifted into a smile as she did so. She hummed and hawed over it for a moment, her eyes darting to the pile of stolen objects I had consolidated over the past few weeks of work at the Desmarias residence. It had been longer since I had begun working as a servant for the household, but I had already sold the stolen wares from previous weeks in the dimly lit merchant's stall off the market. This was a smaller amount than I usually produced, but I was anxious to rid it from my possession.

As the woman looked between the pile and my eyes, I sighed impatiently. She insisted on meeting after dark, when the city was concealed in night. Though the streets were quieter and the King's guards long asleep, moving between the streets at night still held many dangers for myself, a woman, alone.

"This is quite the piece. Where is it you work for again?"

Jaelle's english was cloaked in a thick, exotic accent. I had only heard a few speak the way she, and her husband, Harmon- who sat deeper in the now closed market stall, keeping watch through an opening in a makeshift wooden door- had spoken. Jaelle and Harmon were gypsies, a mysterious group of people who roamed from far away lands into France. Their skin was dark brown, their hair was either straight or moved with dense waves, but was always thick, their eyes nearly black, or sparkling green like emeralds. I had seen their kind near to the markets, spinning vibrant skirts of purple, red and blue for the crowds to strange sounding music. Once, I had seen a young boy with a baby bear towering above him, an iron cage around its mouth. As the boy would play a small flute-like instrument, the bear would move as though it were dancing, and then the boy would open his hat to the crowds who would throw in coin. And sometimes, a beautiful woman would dance with a small goat, beating her slender hand against a tambourine.

"Please, woman. I don't have all night." I responded, grumpily. A smile crackled across Jaelle's face.  
"And who is it you have to be getting home to? An empty bed, or your empty belly?" She smiled. I sighed once again and she reached for her purse. "I would be careful with this one- they might be missing it." She had warned.  
"It was untouched, covered in dust..." I said, defensively.

Jaelle pointed a crooked finger across the table, narrowing her eyes at me.  
"Yes, and they knew it to be there, tonight and tomorrow, covered in dust. Don't get too comfortable, child." Jaelle produced several coins from her purse and lay them on the table.  
"I'd hate to see that pretty English neck of yours swinging in the square." As she said so, she pushed the coins towards me. I reached for them, averting my eyes from her now. I placed my hands to them and tried to pull them across the table towards me, but she stopped them by placing her warm fingers to mine. "After what happened last time..."

I glanced up into her eyes and they sparkled with a kind of mischief. Memories intrusively ambushed my mind. I remembered arriving to the household where I had been working to guards dismounting their horses in the entrance. They had lined us up while the attending servants had interrogated us, our feet freezing in the snow, the guards looking on. They had left us there for hours, shivering as snow fell all around us. Finally, giving up for the day, they had branded a servant girl with a V onto her left hand, there, in front of us all. Her painful cries had still haunted me, swarming my mind like an angry hive, swooping in to sting at my memory. I had left that evening and not returned, having had to rent a different lodging and leave where I had been living without telling a soul. I frowned and looked up into Jaelle's brown eyes, regretting having told her of that when it had happened, as she had used it against me more than once.

Jaelle, true to the nature of her people, had been overly cautious of me when I had first arrived. I remembered her laughing in my face, kindly advising that I return to the country and marry, deeming me unfit for their work. Gypsies were known as vagrants- vile people who were deceitful and malicious. But the couple had been good to me, and honest in all of our transactions. It seemed as though they were wary of us. Jaelle made an exception for the many servant girls across Paris with whom she traded goods for payment, but otherwise the gypsies did not interact with those outside of their people- English or French alike. Their reputation for double-speak must have grown from this distrust, though sadly it had resulted in the people of Paris carrying a distinct contempt and fear of their kind.

Staring into the eyes of the older woman, you could see glimpses of the many stories which filled the vaults, sunken deep in the dark brown pools of them.

"Yes... well... We'll see." I said, irritation biting at my tongue and swiftly moving the coins to the edge of the table. I counted them in my mind.  
"You certainly have a taste for death, my strange child." Jaelle had said this before, always absently, and I had never entirely understood what it had meant. I slid the coins into my purse, counting them again one by one.  
"This is it?" I sighed in disbelief and Jaelle shrugged her shoulders.  
"Yes! Come back when you have something worth our time!" she said, her face lighting up with surprise and amusement. "... Is this it, she asks." Jaelle laughed and shook her head, as her husband Harmon snorted in his sleep behind her, his heavy head now resting its chin to his chest.

Moving to the door, Harmon jumped awake and blinked at us, confused. I glanced down at him and smiled slightly at his oblivious nap, while he had been supposedly responsible for guarding the door. I shot a look back to Jaelle, who was hunched over inspecting the wares on the table, an amused smile of my own crossing my lips at the woman's stubbornness- something I had grown to respect, in spite of the annoyance of it. Harmon looked back up to me, glancing around unsure of the sudden shift in the room.

"My sympathies, good man." I joked to him, his kind eyes blinking up at me. Jaelle snorted a laugh to herself, head not looking up from the pile that sat in front of her.

Walking home, the words of the old woman swam around in my head, as winds filled with wet leaves circled my ankles and feet. Don't get too comfortable... I had been at the home of the clerk Desmarias for the day, and though nothing had felt wrong, the lord had not been home. Holding my cloak tightly around me, I glanced to my own left hand, the one that had not been branded by a red hot letter yielded with the hands of the attending servant, standing in the snow, despite having been the one who had stolen from the household. I thought about her often, as I thought about the girl who I had come to replace at the Desmarias residence, the fates that had consumed them. It had been my branding to bear, but I hadn't taken it.

I remembered the coldness that had filled my heart that day, allowing the innocent servant to be mutilated for something I had done. Though it caused me shame, it did not hurt to think about. She would have done the same thing, if she had been smart enough to have stolen in the first place, something dark within me had said. And I had sunk my claws into this thought, I let it feed me, wash over me as I tried to free myself from the weight of my actions.

But the memory hung, staining the back of my mind, an ever present wound that did not heal. Though, if enough time went by without thinking about it, I could easily forget.

I had begun my life by being brought to the convent in Portchester as an infant. It was a small port town on the English channel. The nuns at the convent did not have a clear writing to describe how I had arrived, beyond the fact that I had been left by a woman who came to the convent one night alone. Long ago I had wondered if it had been my mother. Perhaps she had been widowed, my father a soldier or a peasant, or maybe a wealthy clerk of London who my mother had worked for, I thought snidely to myself, walking through the dark streets of Pairs. Many of the other children had been left with parchment- messages of god's love and prayers for charity tied with a small amount of coin to repay the nuns for bringing us into their care, but none had been mentioned as having been left with me. Perhaps she had never intended to return, or that I had not been her own.

There, I was raised helping the nuns with their domestic duties, until the convent had been unable to afford myself and the other orphaned children. When we had only turned twelve or thirteen, we were moved to a manor in Southhampton owned by a woman, sanctioned by the King to care for foundlings. Here is where our fortunes had taken another turn for the worse...

These small, river towns had been generous and understanding to abandoned children, they had left me unprepared for life in the city once I had left. Perhaps it was here that marked the beginning of a loss of my desire for companionship, the hope to help others, instead of selfishly trying to survive, further leading a life I resented, one I often didn't know if I wanted to continue to be in at all.

The thoughts had come to be too heavy for me, weary at the end of a long day of work. I arrived at the slanted stack of mud and wood homes that I had been calling home, eager to distance myself from thinking them for another day.


	3. Our Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A close call and a mysterious stranger.

The night's sleep had slipped through my hands, I had lay in my bed, barely grasping at it. Somewhere in the confusion of slumber, I dreamt of that day, in the snow. Only in the dream, I stood shivering, afraid, staring at my feet. A pair of polished leather boots stopped in the snow before me, and I followed them up to the frowning face of the attending servant from Desmarias' home, not the servant of the noble household who had carried out his orders on this day, back then. A guard grabbed my arm, holding out the back of my hand in front of me. I begged with them hysterically, watching from the corner of my eye as another guard emerged from the servant kitchen with a cattle brand in the shape of a V. When I saw it, I began to scream, trying desperately to rip my hand from the iron grip of the soldier's gauntlet.

His grip tightened on me, and I looked to either side of onto the line of servants which seemed to go on well into the horizon, over the rolling hills. My voice was high and terrified, pleading for help. The faces of the lines of servants were obscured by their cowls as they kept their heads down, turned away. As the metal of the brand connected with the back of my hand, it sent blood pouring over the sides and I looked up to the face of the servant next to me, my mouth twisted into horrific pain.I found myself staring at my own face, as I remembered I had looked in my memories of it- a vacant, passive look plastered across my eyes.

I woke to find myself with my jaw clenched, beads of sweat sticking to my face. The girls who shared the room with me were looking over with curious glances. I wondered if I had said anything in my sleep. My heart began to slow down and I tried to shake the disoriented expression from my face and prepare for the day. The dream sat with me heavily, like a gargoyle had curled up inside of my chest. Looking back, I should have seen the dream as an omen for what was to come for the rest of the day. But I betrayed myself, dressing for work.

Approaching the residence of Desmarias, I held my breath, certain that the unpleasant dream for some reason meant there would have been guards waiting at the doors for me. Of course, when I arrived that had not been the case. A breath of relief slipped through my lips. Of course not.

I was brought into the town home the same as every other day, and began my work as usual. In the early morning, after cleaning the wooden steps, one by one, I had gathered the clean linens in my arms and proceeded up the stairs to help change over one of the many chambers on the second floor of the town home. The large windows looked over the walls of the Palace de Cite- the offices of the clerks, and rooms full of nobles and royalty. Beyond those walls I had heard there were gardens filled with intricate flowers, growing off of bushes that climbed the walls of the palace. I looked past the great palace and the sun hit the windows of the great cathedral of Notre-Dame. Our Lady. The cathedral took up most of the right bank, forming a vast and open square in front of it, welcoming the people of Paris to her magnificent doors. I had heard stories since I had arrived that the bells rung due to a monstrous man who lived in the bell tower, having been raised as an infant for this one purpose. I looked to bell tower, noting that it stood as the rest of the incredible cathedral did that day- peacefully, knowingly. The sun seemed to beam down on the head of every gargoyle who lined the bell tower and I was lost to a daydream for a moment, finding a sense of peace in a view that did not look out over dirty streets and peasant livestock.

I pulled myself from the window and continued walking toward the long hallway of rooms, wondering where the servant was who was intended to have met me in the laundry to change the sheets, as she had been nowhere to be found. Approaching the door to the chamber, I frowned, noticing it was the only door in the long hall that was open just a crack. I leaned forward, reaching for the intricate metal pull when I heard the sound of furniture being bumped into and the nervous, shaking breath of a young woman. The sound stopped me in my tracks, ears tingling with the sensation of someone in distress. It was a sound I had sadly come to know too well. I brought my ear closer to the door, making sure not to shift my weight and risk the creaking of a floorboard. The voice of the servant girl trembled and I strained to hear what she had said. Desmarias cut her off, his voice like a hiss.

"It's alright, if it's been you... you're not in trouble, my sweet." He had said, the French words pooling thickly in the air like heavy perfume. The girl was silent in response, but her shaky breath continued. "But if you are struggling, we could always work out an agreement..."

Without thinking, I took a deep breath and turned my back to the door, pushing it open with my backside, then, walking into the room and turning around, I pretended to be surprised to have seen them standing there. The girl moved quickly away from Desmarias, whose hand snapped back from her thigh like a snake, his arm leaning on the mantle behind him.  
"Mon dieu! Excusez, mon Seigneur!" I cried, dropping the pile of linens to the floor with an added touch. What are you doing? He knows that one of you is a thief... I shut the door on my thoughts and bent down to pick up the sheets.

The clerk of the Prévot crossed behind me, I felt his eyes stabbing at my back.  
"Of course... please continue..." He said to us, and I stood up with the linens crumpled into my arms. I placed them down on the mattress and the girl briskly came to the foot of the bed to help me. As Jacques left the room, she meekly took the corner of the linen in her hand and together we set the bed. She had been unable to meet my eyes, and spoke not even one word of a thank you. My face grew hot thinking about it. Why did you even bother if you were only looking for praise? My internal voice returned and I flung the pillow towards the towering oak headboard, silencing it as it hit the wood and I set it in place.

As we finished, my eyes wandered to the stand where the mirror had once been. There was a distinct outline in dust surrounding the shape of its handle- signaling its absence. Jaelle's words filled my mind as the girl loaded up her arms with the sheets, her view now blocked by a towering stack of balled up linens. Quickly I ran the elbow of my sleeve over the top of the stand, removing the dust in one sweep as I tried to cover my tracks, before following her out the door. She walked down the steps ahead of me, balancing the sheets in her arms. I went to follow her, but felt a cold grip on the back of my arm. The blood drained from my face.

The servant girl ahead of me glanced back from the side of her eye, but continued quickly down the stairs, escaping the situation. Just like I told you... I thought. I turned slowly, my eyes on the ground, finding the polished leather of Jacques' boots.  
"Yes, my lord?" I asked the floor.  
"Look at me..." He commanded, and I lifted my eyes to meet his. The sliver of amusement that had filled them was filled now with only intense suspicion. My heart dropped to my stomach and I struggled to keep it from my eyes, feigning ignorant as much as possible. "What did you say your name was?" His eyes had searched mine.  
"Victoria, my lord." I responded.

Desmarias had released me, his paw sliding off of my tail long enough for me to walk, calmly to the kitchen. But once I crossed over into it, I released my breath and my heart thudded in my chest. He most certainly knows... My thoughts raced.  
"Shut up." I quietly silenced myself, my eyes darting to the market basket on the large servants table. I could slip out, today, and if the lord of the household didn't see me for the rest of the day, maybe tomorrow... If I could have been back the next day, maybe it would have all settled for a time. I glanced around the kitchen, the few servants in the cramped, hot room were going about their duties. Swiftly I reached for the basket and made my way out of the servant door, passing in front of the stables where the lord's horses waited, moving quickly to join the traffic of the busy street.

Making my way towards the market, I crossed over the bridge in the same direction I had to go towards my lodgings. It felt like the windows from the townhouse bore into my back, watching as I ran away.

Once in the market, I felt less visible. Hordes of people gathered around merchant stands, bargaining and trading. The sound of other people was overwhelming, and even in the cool autumn air being packed in so close together created its own kind of heat. I tried to steady my racing mind, what should I do? Now, having left, I could try to do some purchasing for the home, in hopes that would make it seem as though I was busying myself with errands. It was not my duty in the least to do so for the Desmarias residence, but I thought it could potentially have saved me from rousing further suspicion. This left one issue- payment. I clucked my tongue at myself, for finding myself backed against this wall. What are you so upset about? You are a thief, aren't you? My mind mocked.

I glanced around at the crowded market, it was an ideal day for pick pocketing, but what if something had gone wrong? Did I want to draw more attention to myself? Don't you think you can do it? The voice persisted and I sighed. Did I really have a choice at this point?

Picking a pocket was another slight of hand that I had learned from the many days I had been working as a servant in a city. I had learned that half of the maneuver was to commit to the right individual. The tall, woolen cloak of a young man walked confidently through the market. I moved easily in his direction, keeping my eyes on his every step as he stopped at merchant stalls. The young man looked well off enough... probably a student, sent to Paris from a noble family. The purse was hardly something he'd miss. The second half of the skill was to split yourself in two- one part of you engages in an activity separate of your hand. Use your stronger hand to distract yourself. In this case, my left hand grabbed at the stiff, round apples that had come to the merchant stand from the country. I thought about how perfect they had been, arriving fresh from the fall harvest. Then your weaker hand finds itself next to the person. The man now stood beside me at the market and, moving with the motion of his cloak, my hand felt for the purse on his breeches. Only in place of the cold leather, or velvet, I felt warmth. Flesh.

My eyes widened, and heart began to race. The flesh grabbed my hand before I could pull it away and then released it suddenly, afraid as well. Confused I looked up to the man, but his eyes remained fixed on the merchant who he had been speaking to.

Unsure of what to do, I quickly tried to untie the purse, but once again the feeling of another's hand was ontop of my fingers. The two hands collided under the man's cape, bumping against his hip and alerting him of the obscure scenario.

I had felt the other hand slip the leather chord from the belt, but the eyes of the young student had turned to me furiously. I peered to the other side of the student and caught the side of a man's face, covered by a cloak as it turned to disappear into the crowd.

"Monsieur! Your purse has been grasped by that-" I looked behind the man to the cloaked figure. The student turned and lunged forward, grabbing the cloaked figure by is shoulder, pulling it tightly towards him. The young man's gesture caused the cloak to fall back.

After what I had said, the merchant, and now many in the crowd all stopped to watch the display. The hood came down, and the man was revealed to be wearing a large dark purple hat, a yellow feather sticking out the back. The rim of the hat was tattered and cast uneven shadows across his face from the afternoon sun. His clothing was bright, a flamboyant combination of dark purples and golds surrounded him, and at the end of the golden fabric he wore around his neck hung golden bells that glistened in the autumn light. The eyes of the man locked onto mine from behind a dark purple mask, lined in gold. The deep, dark brown circles buried in the mask took the wind out of me with their depth and intensity, burning into me, hatefully, as I lost track of my words.

"...Gypsy..." I muttered, the one word I could find to express who it was I stared back at. I had seen this man in the market before, performing with intricately crafted puppets to the children.

At the sound of this word, the man narrowed his eyes and the tone of the crowd who looked on shifted to shock and appall. The man was lifted up by his collar, the purse dangling in his grasp. The student who held him delivered a punch to his jaw, causing the man he held to make a short groaning sound as he was impacted. The crowd's intent interest which had formed around us had attracted the king's guards, and I watched as their golden helmets made their way through the people towards us.

For a moment, everything felt like a dream, it was all moving so slowly. The eyes of the gypsy man as he looked up from the hit delivered to his jaw as they fell back onto me, memorizing my face, coldly. I felt like I couldn't move from under them, they held me tightly like talons, hot claws ripping into my chest. I saw as the guards had almost reached us and without thinking, I shot forward quickly and grasped the purse from the hands of the brightly decorated man who hung in the student's grip. He held onto it tightly for a brief second, allowing him one final, hateful stare cast onto my face before, to my surprise, he released his hold on the purse and I slipped effortlessly into the crowd which had now begun to be broken up by the king's men.


	4. The Mare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bad dream and a bad situation.

Suddenly, the air surrounding the hundreds of people shoved into the crowded square outside the glorious doors of Notre Dame fell cold and heavy, like a serpent wrapping around the neck of its prey. In spite of the towering bodies of townsfolk and imperial guards surrounding me, eyebrows furrowed and burning into my peripherals, sharp whispers filling the stale atmosphere with sparks, I somehow saw past them all; through the gaps in decrepit shoulders and gnawing teeth, and into the deep dark brown eyes of the man who had just been grabbed by two large, armored men bearing the Kings seal.

The dark grey skies hung above us all, unmoving- dark and silent. All else grew still for these moments, and a cold chill ran down my back. What I felt was not fear, nor was I at ease. The dark brown, partially masked eyes on the other side of the court yard blazed back at me not with hate, or sadness, but an intimidating serenity, and sense of knowing. His eyes were ones you have seen in a thousand lonely places in your life. The eyes of a lost hand of cards, a betrayed lover or a risk made in dim light.

Though I did not feel threatened or afraid in the moment, a sense of unease followed me from that moment forward, drowning in his dark-

"GO ON THEN!" A guard screamed in my face. As I broke eye contact, the world around me began to focus, as the busy crowd had resumed. With one blink I felt as though I had come out of a deep sleep.

"I-Uh, Je" I stammered, but the guards, sneering from their sides, had already begun to turn away. I glanced desperately through the crowd for a moment, what had just happened? Where had they taken him?

The ends of my forefinger and thumb, which had grasped the purse of the stranger we had both found ourselves reaching for moments ago still burned with their actions. What had I done? The dread began to creep up on me, as I wove through the streets of merchants and back to my lodging. Was I being overly cautious? Eyes flickered in the dark as the small amount of light from the late fall sun instantly turned to flames hissing in oil lamps, dramatic shadows licking the cold cobblestone streets.

I pulled the hood of my shawl around my head, to shield myself from the gaze of figures crouched in doorways and feet trickling beside or behind me. Was I imagining things? Those sharp whispers filled every corner of every pub and closed shop on my walk home, steam clouding the dim windows of homes and flats. I was imagining things.

Not a moment too soon was I grabbing the doorknob to the boarding house and trotting up the stairs, past the snoring of our landlady in her chamber. I had to stop my hands from shaking as I turned my key and quickly shut the door behind me. A partial moon glared at me from cracks in the thick autumn clouds. I remembered the eyes of the man in the courtyard, and felt that unease as though it were grazing my ankles from beneath the door to the hallway. I gasped in spite of my self, and shot to the window to close the curtains.

"You're being ridiculous... you're just tired..." I reasoned with myself, lighting my own candle and hanging up my cloak. I tried to step lightly as I went, to distinguish the sound of my movements from the movements of others in the old house, the breathing of the house and the blowing of the wind outside.

I slipped quickly out of my clothes, placing my shoes and dress as far away from the cold window as possible. Letting down my hair, I slid into bed, pulling the linen blanket over my head. I could hear my heart beating into the pillow. Each groan of the house, no matter how familiar, or snort of a sleeping boarder caused me to jump. I dimmed the lantern low and fell into a restless sleep.

In this sleep I dreamt I was running through a forest. The ground was covered in snow, and I ran barefoot. With each step I broke a branch or some skin, my feet below me were bloody and sore. I kept glancing behind me through the woods to see a torch dancing in the distance. The cold air pierced my lungs with each fevered breath. Ahead of me, pale light reflected from water, guiding me through slivers of snow on fallen branches. I tripped over them, hands clutching at icy rocks, following the frozen stream to my side that lead to the clearing through the trees.

I emerged onto a frozen, rocky beach, and fell forwards into the cold, hard snow. I looked up towards the water, into the eyes of a large dark mare. She kicked her long black hooves through the icy water, her smoky breath filling the dark night that surrounded her. Pressing my chest into the frozen sand, I reached one hand out to her, frozen tears burning my face. She suddenly reared up on her hind legs, producing a whine that sounded like a thousand breaking plates. I clench my head as the sound pierces the air.

My heavy eyelids crack open to the sight of my room, glowing with the dark grey light of an early autumn morning. The screeching, still screaming through the room is resonating from the shop of the alley below. A rooster performing its morning ritual. I rub my eyes to find my hands are still ice cold. As I peer at them through the slit of light between my curtains I could have sworn they were bright pink from the cold. My breath fills my room, and the curtain shutters in the wind.

I sit up quickly in bed "Did I-..." I frown, remembering the thick iron window being firmly shut and latched when I came in the night before. I spring out of bed, my bare feet skimming ice cold floor as I fall towards the window, slamming it shut and latching it from the inside. I caught my breath sitting at the side of my bed, studying my callused hands as they trembled in place. The deep and hollow ringing of the bells from Notre Dame filled the city streets. I counted them, and wearily peered out the window.

Sliding back into my work dress, I wrapped my feet in bandage, toes numb with cold from the freezing room, feet torn up from hours and days working in shoes I had grown out of years before. I wrapped my cloak around me- the one true comfort I had to take with me each day.

Stepping onto the early morning streets, I found the corner by the boarding house to be suspiciously empty for this time of day. Had I miscounted the bells? Was it earlier than I thought? I paused and glanced around me, wary of the circumstances. After a moment I turned to carry on my way. I turned into the chest of a large man, how had he appeared so suddenly and silently? I jumped back, the smell of musk and spice carried from his tunic. A familiar smell.

"What?!" Was all I could exclaim. I glanced briefly onto the unfamiliar face of the man in front of me which wore a somber impression. A "THUNK" and sudden sharp pain radiated through my skull. The figure of the man, the city streets, the sky all went blurry and I felt my cheek hit the stone of the street below me and the world fell dark once again.


	5. A Tomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An enclosure for a corpse, cut in the earth or in rock.

The smell of wet earth and blood suddenly, immediately, flooded through me. I gasped for air, my mouth was dry and I could taste both the dirt and the blood whose smell awoke me. I sat propped against a damp wall in complete darkness. I could feel my heart start beating rapidly, as fear and adrenaline filled my veins. My hands were pressed behind my back and my fingertips pushed against the cold, hard stone. The air inside was heavy, hot, and stale. Smoke lingered in the room, I could feel the walls and the ceiling looming over me, crushing me.

The rope tied tightly around my wrists tugged on the rope burn that had been etched into my wrists hours ago as I used my weak and sore hands to support myself, squirming against the cold wall as I attempted to stand up. Where was I? Had I died? Was this the hell for the poor beggars and thieves of the world? When I finally managed to find myself standing, I noticed the heavy cuff around my ankle, and felt the weight of the chain that connected to it. A sudden rush of blood to my head from finally lifting myself up caused a severe and sudden ache of the spot where I had been hit.

How long have I been here? The side of my mouth also ached. In the darkness, I used my tongue to find the source, seeking out a gash that ran down the corner of my lip. Agh.

Breathless, I stood panting and bound in the dark, cold, space. I felt as though I had been left to die, if I wasn't already dead yet... But, now what?Before I could decide if I should give up- slink back down and wait for the rats, or try to call out to the darkness that engulfed me for an answer, the striking of a torch slashed through the heavy silence. Partial light a distance away gave shape to the space I was in... a Long hallway... with curved ceilings, made of stone... a dirt floor...

The torch light drew closer, and as it turned a shallow corner nearly blinded me with it's sudden illumination of the space. Chains hung all along the empty hallway. Centipedes and rats scurried off towards me as the torch blinded them as well. I held my breath as the torch light drew closer. Suddenly it was directly in front of me. Wincing, I tried to peer beyond the torch and to the figure behind the flames.

"Stupid English girl. What were you thinking." A familiar voice. I glanced at the hand that held the torch, and immediately recognized the bony grip and beautiful jewelry.

"Jaelle!" I exclaimed, attempting to move towards the gypsy merchant in the dark, the heavy clunk of the chain around my ankle pulled me back and I stumbled a bit. Moving back, Jaelle fell into view of the torch. She looked concerned, but angry.

"You're a fool! I knew I should have never done business with you. Do you know what could happen if somebody found me talking to you?!" She hissed, using her other hand to fish out a small vessel of water from beneath her cloak.

"Please, please help me." I could feel tears building up behind my voice, and I wanted so badly to collapse into tears in front of the woman who I barely knew. My knees began to tremble as Jaelle kissed her teeth in the darkness. She set the torch in a space in the wall and came to my side.

"I am not sure how much I can. But I will try. You realize you assisted in the imprisonment of our King?" She took my shoulder and aided in giving me water from the vase. I barely heard what she said, I was so thirsty. The cool water washed over me and cleared my throat from the dust, dirt and blood that had been sitting in it since I had arrived.

"Where am I?" I asked once I caught my breath. Jaelle blinked at me. "You are somewhere that few people see, and even fewer make it back out from."

Jaelle's response sent a chill down my spine. My heart began to race, I tried to hide my panic.

"I'm sorry. I'm really so sorry. I didn't know what else to do, and I didn't know they would-"  
"Child!" Jaelle interrupted "It is done. Right now my people are planning to free the King, and once he is back they will surely call for your execution."

With her words my heart sank.

"I will be able to come back once more, and if I can, will ensure that you get out safely. My only condition is that you would leave Paris and never return." A swell of sadness filled me, but I knew that she was right. I would endanger us both if I were to stay. But where would I go?

I nodded solemnly.

"I must leave you now. Thank the gods that I can see you are a good person, in spite of your loneliness and stupidity. Please try to get some rest." She spoke hurriedly, and I could hear footsteps approaching from further down the path. I nodded once more, which fell to the darkness, as swiftly and silently Jaelle grabbed the torch and fled down the hall, her cloak filling the tomb with the smell of spice and smoke for a split instant before leaving me alone, in the stuffy, cold, dark once again.

When I could no longer see the flames from Jaelle's torch on the stone walls of the catacomb, I let myself fall back against the hard stone. A sob erupted from deep inside of me. Sliding down against the wall, tears streamed down my face and stung the open wound below my lip. Exhausted, and overwhelmed, I felt helplessly alone. If a thieving maid were to die in the catacombs of the gypsy hideaway, who would have ever known? Who would have cared?

I slid down to the floor, and rolled to my side. Resting my head on the freezing dirt ground my thoughts went to the day I had spent in the church of Notre Dame. I could see myself in front of her great stained glass, feel the marble beneath my feet, smell the incense which burned in the Archdeacon's thurible. If I were going to die, I wish they would take me into the great church, for it was the first and the only time I had felt close to god in my entire life.

I sighed, my face caked in tears, and closed my eyes. But in the darkness I could not imagine the immeasurable beauty of Notre Dame, no matter how hard I tried. All I could see were the burning eyes of the man from the market, the jester and the Gypsy King. They bore through me like a curse, watching me as I slipped again into the darkness of sleep.


	6. Secourir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sad memories and an omen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: child sexual abuse implied.

CW: Abuse.

With the depravity of all senses, the mind can settle on some curious things. Curious, dark, and lonesome. I remember so little of my time my before the orphanage. Before I was crammed into a home in the city with hundreds of other girls whose parents had realized the little value in us as children, as heirs. I'd like to say I have a beautiful memory of my mother, glowing and radiant smiling down at me at least once before the motherless rules of a hundred abandoned children became my upbringing.

Unfortunately, I don't. Girls who also grew up at the orphanage, whose parents hadn't died in a fire or fallen ill, had memories like this. Their lives would have been completely different had fate not lifted it's third, cruel eye; because they had a family, and it had been taken away from them. Their families remained with them forever in memory and had left their daughter's behind in another way...

I remember most of the girls, even the cruel ones. I remember the stories of the girls who did know their families, and the hushed cries in the night. Those of us who had never known were left with a sort of comfort in that nothing could have gone differently, except maybe with the luck that we wouldn't have been born.

I remember coming of age in the orphanage by turning fifteen. At this age the caregivers and owners of the orphanage expected you to assist with the younger girls and assume responsibility for majority of the chores. This was how I first began to clean. What I enjoyed most about it was the access it gave me into rooms in the orphanage. From the kitchen to the basements, to the quarters of the nuns who looked after us. Each room was different, and when emptied, gave a new and quiet life. The solitude and serenity of it was truly what drew me to take on most of the cleaning chores for the building, that and my difficulties caring for small children.

The access of cleanings also allowed me to be seen in places where I shouldn't have been, and to notice all sorts of small details around the orphanage, from delivery days, to where staff took breaks, to which doors led to which streets. I had also begun to notice that some of the girls who had turned fifteen to seventeen were coming to early meals with mysterious bruises on their faces. They would often skip dinner. At first it was just one girl, but over several months I noticed two or three would have strange marks and bruises all over their arms and legs. It seemed that nobody else paid any mind, not even the girl's to themselves or one another.

I awoke one night to find one of these girls being escorted out of the elder girl's dormitory by one of the orphanage's female staff. I frowned into the darkness and held my breath. As they passed through the doors to the hall I waited momentarily before springing up out of bed and creeping to the hallway behind them. I pried open the door a crack, and heard as they slipped down the stairs and into the main hall of the building. As silently as I could, I tip toed to the window and watched as the girl from our orphanage ducked into a carriage by lantern light, hidden by a cloak. A hand suddenly grabbed her arm and pulled it into the darkness. The orphanage worker didn't wait long before the carriage tore off down the gravel road.I quickly returned to the dormitory and quietly shut the door behind me. While hastily trying to return to my bed, my eyes locked with bright blue eyes of a girl who lay on her cot in the darkness, a small gash that had been healing on her lip for a few days visible in the night by the light of the cloudy full moon. I stopped in my tracks and she quickly closed her eyes. I paused, and glanced around the room of sleeping bodies, ensuring the coast was clear. I moved toward the girl on her cot, who frowned with her eyes closed. I bent down beside her.

"Do you know something? Where did they take her?" I whispered. She shuttered a sigh from her pillow and her bright blue eyes shot open.

"You would not want to know." the girl whispered back, defeated.

"...Tell me."

The girl averted her eyes in the darkness, struggling with the words. Finally she took a breath. "They've been... selling us... " Was all she could say, as silver tears illuminated by the moonlight streaked across her eyes. My heart sunk and I gasped quietly. I grabbed her hand on her pillow.

"We'll leave. Tomorrow, after midnight." I whispered, harshly. The girl glanced back at me before slipping her hand away from mine. She rolled over, facing away from me.

"And go where?"

"Wherever. Anywhere... We'll all go."

She lay quiet again, unresponsive. I placed a hand on her shoulder "Please." I begged.

Before she could respond, I heard the clunk of a heel on hardwood in the hallway leading to the dormitory. My hands, still shaking, clenched into fists as I quickly and quietly crossed to the other side of the dormitory, past other sleeping girls and to my bed by the window. The heels stopped at the door and I heard the knob turn right as I was pulling my blanket up over my side.

As the door creaked open a cold silence crossed the figures of the sleeping girls that filled the large, cold room. I felt the presence of the person at the end of the long room and tried to close my eyes and appear to be asleep. The footsteps slowly began to cross the room towards me and I held my breath. Within seconds, the foot steps stopped at the foot of my bed and I frowned into the darkness, my heart beating, clenching the end of my blanket in my hand.

I felt as eyes glanced over me, pausing to consider for several seconds that felt like a lifetime. Afraid to exhale, I lay silently.

A cold and sudden rush of water filled my lungs and I gasped on the cold floor of the dirt hallway where I had last remembered being. I coughed the water back up and choked, while two large figures laughed behind torchlight.

"There we go, she's not dead yet!" One of the deep voices boomed. I heaved on the ground in front of them, as the dirty water trickled down my face. My eyes went to the hands of one of the tall figures, clutching a jug of water. Unable to sleep, I had fallen into the back of my memories and was unsure how long I had been in the strange place between sleep and my grim reality. With my hands still tied behind my back I was unable to wipe away the dirt or water that had been poured onto me from the two men standing before me.

The men continued to laugh as I struggled to push myself up to a seated position. When I had managed to come to a seat, one of them lunged forward and forcefully pushed me back onto the ground. My head hit the dirt once more with a force. Their laughs roared, faces masked by the flames of their torches.

I tried to push myself back up to a seat once more when the other man reached forward and grabbed me by the collar of my dress. He lifted me up from the ground to my feet and forcefully threw me to the back of the wall. My back hit my hands stuck behind me with such a force I cried out.

"Poor English girl. Thought you could steal from us and escape?" The man's accent was heavy, and his large hand gripped my blouse with such rage my stomach sank through my body.

"I didn't..." I began, out of breath through chapped lips. The hand holding me up dropped me back to my feet and switched its grip for a chunk of my hair. The man pulled me forward, my hair caught in between their thick knuckles. I winced as he dragged me forward and I tripped over the heavy chain around my ankle. The torch was held up to my face, and I was staring into the eyes of the man who had been grabbing me. He did not look like Jaelle or Harmon, or even the man I had met in the the market who I had begun to realize was a King to Jaelle's people... His eyes radiated hate and violence.

"I didn't say you could talk!" The man spit. He had pulled me right up to his face, I was so close to him I could smell his breath. The flames from the torch burned so brightly the side of my face closest to them felt as though it were smoldering embers. Using the hair clenched in his hand once again, the man threw me back against the wall as the second man, cloaked in shadows, watched and snickered. I coughed again, the wind having been knocked out of me. The first man advanced towards me and pushed himself against me, pinning me against the wall with his large and muscular body.

"Get off of me" I squeezed out from beneath him

"What did you say?" he snarled back at me, grabbing my shoulders and pushing himself further onto me, my ribs began to ache under the pressure. I lifted my eyes to meet his again. His knee stabbed into my thigh and I winced through the excruciating pain.

"I said-"

"And I thought I told you to Shut up !" The man reached down and grabbed part of my under skirt. He ripped off a large strip. Before I knew what was happening he held me in place, pressed between his body and the wall of the catacombs and shoved the piece of fabric into my mouth, tying the two ends around the back of my head. I stood motionless and humiliated as the two laughed. The piece of fabric caused me to swallow heavily, trying not to choke. The first man backed off of me and I struggled to stay up, my tired and sore legs shaking as I hatefully glared at them.

"Oh she's angry now" The second man hissed.

"Good." Said the first man. "Clopin will like that." He bent down and grabbed the chain around my ankle, ripping at it hard enough to pull my feet out from under me. I fell back, hitting my head hard against the wall of the catacomb. Everything suddenly fell black once more.


	7. The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is a cold, dark, tunnel buried under Paris.

Shortly after running away from the orphanage, where the young girl who I had begged to escape with me had looked me in the eyes shortly after being returned from another night of being taken away in a carriage until the early morning, and begged me to leave while I still had a chance, I was alone and lost in the busy streets of London.

It had been early spring, and snow still clung to every filthy corner of the city, the only place I had ever known. I left hurriedly, through a servant door in the orphanage kitchen which lead to an exit that remained unused. Taking with me only the clothes that I wore and my cloak, I spent whole days wandering around the markets, begging with other children and peddlers. I watched as they fought over scraps of food that they had stolen, as hungry children stole small loaves of bread from behind the baker's back and their hungry mothers would rip them from their hands in broken down, piss stained doorways. We would silently glare from behind the soot on our face's as wives would come to the market to shop for their household, towing their children behind them.

At night, candlelight would flicker from the homes of people above the streets and I would search for an empty space to get one or so hours of restless sleep. Occasionally men would follow me through the streets, offering a less than appealing position of work, or making promises of a home and family.

I realized at this time that I was now a woman, unmarried and alone in the world. Whispers of the plague were still heard through the streets as people would vanish and never return.

With no husband and no family, and no household to serve, I spent most days feeling as though I had already passed and haunted the dense urban landscape as a spirit. Had it not been for one fateful day, I am sure I would have died on those streets and that I would now truly be a soul more lost than I had been alive in the ruins I would often sleep. On this day, however, I watched as a young woman, younger than I, cautiously approach vendors in the market. I was far from the only one who noticed her unease in the city. Filthy ears perked up as the woman stumbled through her interactions with Merchants, who scoffed as she tip toed around to the wrong place asking for an item they did not have. As the woman turned to walk alone down an empty street near the market, I tried not to notice the small group of teenage boys who turned down the street behind her.

The street remained empty by street folk and peasants visiting from their homes alike, as it sat, a desolate dead end and lure for naive visitors. A spider's trap for vagrant meals. As one of the boys looked around, I adverted my gaze briefly. I had seen a similar scene play out so many times before, however, this time something felt different... This feeling was confirmed when I saw one of the boys bend down and pick up a brick that lay next to a ruined entrance to a building. A second boy retrieved a dagger from his pocket. My heart began to beat out of time, as the young woman unknowingly walked towards the end of the street.

I paused for a moment. This was certainly not my business, and yet, a terrible feeling could not escape me. I pulled myself up from the doorway where I had been sitting and began to walk towards the alley. Eyes followed me from behind vendor stands, beneath the brims of caps. I tried to steady my breath as I approached the entrance to the street. I bent down and grabbed a brick from the same entrance that the boy had and attempted to quietly follow the group. When I caught up with them, the woman stood pressed against the wall of the alley, her eyes wide with fear.

"Please. Don't." her voice quivered. One boy stood with a stone held up by his head, in a launch position. The elder boy held his dagger out at the woman. She clenched the basket of groceries. "I have a child who is very sick." she pleaded. The boy with a dagger smiled. Before I could stop myself, I heard my own voice ring out through the street.

"OY!" I called to them. Everyone jumped a bit and turned to look directly at me. I held the rock up, trying to look threatening.

"Wot?" The elder boy called back, trying to mask his fear.

"Wot yrself!" I responded, taking slow but confident steps towards them. I locked eyes with the woman, who did not look relieved to see another dirty person wielding a brick approaching her.

"Mind yr own." The boy hissed.

"I intend to. Isabella... come along..." I motioned to the woman with my hand. She looked confused. The boys laughed.

"You don't know her, we've seen you around here!" The younger boy with the brick squeaked.

"And I've seen you ! who gave you boys that dagger?" I advanced towards them. "Shouldn't you be up to some kind of other mischief?" I soon stood directly in front of them.

"Go on then, or we'll end you too." The boy flicked the dagger in my direction. I lowered the brick in my hand and the group of boys looked surprised, and then pleased. I reached out in an instant and grabbed the younger boy, who seemed to be around ten, by the shoulder of his shirt. He shouted as I pulled him in and held him around the shoulders. The woman, pressed against the wall, gasped

"Let her go!" I yelled, threatening the small boy with the brick in my hand.

"Let me go!" the boy squeaked back, squirming in my arms. The elder boy looked between myself holding the smallest member of his group, and the woman pressed against the wall, terrified. He finally looked towards the other boys, whose eyes pleaded with him.

"Agh! Go on then!" He cried out to the woman, motioning away with his dagger. She did not hestitate, jumping up and running just behind me for protection. I stepped backwards, the boy still squirming in my arm while maintaining eye contact with the older boy who held the dagger out towards me, advancing in our direction. I could hear the woman behind me panting over the sound of my own heart beating with fear and excitement. Once the exit back to the market was in view I stopped suddenly and let go of the boy, I kicked his bottom towards the other boys, causing him to fall into them. I turned and grabbed the woman's hand, running out of the alley.

"Oy! Get back here!" I heard the boy yell after us as he tried to gain his footing back. Gripping the hand of the younger woman I did not stop. I dragged her back through the market and down to the docks by the water, my feet threatening to trip under the uneven ground and cobblestone streets as we ran, leaving the city behind us. For a moment I realized I had even been smiling, the success of the situation filling me with a rare moment of joy. The woman ripped her hand back from me as I finally stopped to catch my breath. She panted heavily in front of me, her face awash with disbelief. Still smiling, I began to cough harshly from the cold air in my lungs.

"I apologize, miss." I wheezed between coughs. She glanced at me, out of breath and still bewildered.

"For saving my life?" She finally managed out. I looked up at her and smiled. I noticed her voice carried a slight accent that I could not place. "My name is Victoria." I said, standing up and extending a filth stained hand. She glanced back down at it, and then at her own hand, which I had pulled through the city streets moments ago.

"My name es Yvette." The woman said, extending her hand towards me.

Yvette was a young widow who lived in a village just outside of the market. She had been married young to an older man who had passed shortly after she had given birth to her second son. Yvette had quite a bit of land, with some livestock and chickens. Yvette had been married to her late husband through their family's arranged marriage, she had travelled from France to be with him. In Paris she was the daughter of a merchant who traded linens and silks, her eldest son had just turned eleven and had begun to help her around the farm, but as her husband was the owner of the land, neither of them understood much about farming. Yvette explained this to me as I walked her to the road on the edge of town to wait for a cart who was returning to a neighboring village. That day, the grey skies parted into a deep, winter sunset that peered at us over the distant hills. Yvette turned to me, her pink face basked in the final moments of a late winter's sun, breath escaped her lips as she asked me

"Where will you go?"

I glanced down towards my feet. My boots were worn and dirty, soaked through to my freezing toes. I turned a bit to the road behind me, gesturing back towards the city. Yvette somberly glanced down as well, averting her large, deep brown eyes. In the distance, the hay cart pulled over a hill and we began to watch it slowly inch through the mud. Yvette leaned forward and grabbed my frozen, dirty hand in her gloved one. I could feel the warmth of her skin from between the leather.

"Come with me. I will write to my family in Paris, they will know what to do."

My heart began to beat quickly again.

"I- I'm not sure..." My eyes darted back to the city, towering stone smoke stacks loomed at the end of the long road. This was the first instance of acceptance, of kindness in a very long time. I searched my weary head for a reason why I should say no, noting the approaching cart from the corner of my eye. Yvette's eyes bore into me, and as the cart finally appeared a few feet away from us I glanced back up to meet her gaze.

"I will." I nodded. Yvette smiled.

My eyes shot open into the damp and humid hallway of the catacomb once more. My head throbbed. My hands tied behind my back had lost all feeling long ago and now my foot, which lay trapped under my body had joined them as well. The air was so thick, and as the entrance lay so far down the pitch black hallway, nothing ever moved, and each breath was stale and stifling.

The pain in my head made opening my eyes even painful as I struggled to do so in the dark. A yelling voice from deep in the catacombs echoed through the halls, and I saw a dim light grow closer.

Fading in and out of memories and half-awake dream states and the painful reality of being curled up and chained in a tomb underground, I had completely lost a sense of how long I had been down here for. It could have been days, or weeks. The shouts grew closer in the catacomb, and the ceiling above me began to grow brighter.

"You can not do this. Please! She didn't know any better... How could you?" The frantic voice of Jaelle echoed through the chambers.

"Go home, old woman. You can not help her now." A coarse voice snarled back. I remembered Jaelle's words, that she would be able to return one last time and it would be to help me escape. As the light from a torch came into my view, my blood ran cold noting that Jaelle was not alone.

"I beg you, please." Jaelle began to plead with the man in another language I had often heard her speak to her husband Harmon. She had begun to raise her voice, when the man yelled back at her. I heard another person struggle with Jaelle, and Jaelle's voice begin to fade as she was rushed back out of the catacomb. Two figures stood leaning over me. One bent down and put their hand firmly on my shoulder.

I shuttered out a breath and they locked eyes from behind their torches. "Still alive." They noted. I wasn't sure if I believed them anymore.

One man lifted me up, partially over his shoulder. I groaned in spite of myself, every part of my body sore. I felt hands grasp the cold and heavy band that had been chained around my ankle, unlocking it. The ends of my toes tingled with the relief of this weight. I coughed, dangling half off of the side of the first man. A second pair of hands grabbed my other shoulder. They began to walk, holding me from either side. As I went to take the first step, my leg, still asleep and the ankle that had been chained to the wall both gave out. The two strong men on either side caught me and held me up just enough so my feet dragged along the floor.

It took me a few minutes to come to and realize what was happening. They were taking me out of the catacombs. Jaelle had been protesting because they had intended to hang me. I tried to place my feet back on the ground, to stand and stop their motion. I attempted to hesitate and plant one of my feet, but stumbled again. The men jerked me forward by my shoulders.

I tried again to plant my feet this time more intentionally. I managed out a hesitant sound, somewhere between a "No" and a "Please". The men silently ignored me and continued to weave through the halls, their torches held out in front of them with their other hands. Exhaustion and fear was catching up with me. I had been down here for so long. I was going to die without seeing the sky again, without seeing the church, feeling the fresh air that wasn't the stale and damp prison I had been left in. A feeling much heavier than the chain that had been placed around my ankle curled up and sunk into my throat. I didn't want to die.

"No. Please..." I managed out, slightly more audible, through chapped lips and the piece of cloth still tied around my mouth. Tears began to stream down my face. I had begun to half drag and half limp on my feet as they carried me, trying to pull back. The two men carrying me grunted irritably and would jerk me forward. My sobs shook my entire body, but they carried me on regardless. I saw the end of the tunnel, torch and firelight filled a great room in front of me. I choked back tears and closed my eyes as we emerged from the catacomb and into a large room. The smell of food and fire filled the air. I winced as the light of the room hit my eyes. The large hall was filled with all kinds of sounds as well, as we drew closer I realized it was a crowd of people, all speaking at once. I felt eyes turn and look to us, and the room hushed significantly.

The two men moved me through the crowd. My eyes were shut with tears and exhaustion. I could sense the reaction of the crowd surrounding us who turned to one another and whispered in tongues I could not understand. Finally the two men let me drop to the ground once again, but this time I made no effort to pick myself up.

"Go on then, get out of here!" A loud man boomed to the crowd. In return, the crowed raised their voices to murmurs but soon dispersed. I frowned, my eyes still closed. That was uncommon for an execution. Two hands reached down and removed the piece of cloth from around my mouth. A boot nudged my shoulder.

"Girl. Wake up." A sharp voice commanded. I slowly opened my eyes to focus on a man I had never seen before. Standing next to him were the two men from the catacombs and Jaelle's husband, who gazed down at me sympathetically. I stared at them all, confused, and defeated. "Can you hear me?" The man asked. I blinked up at him. The man from the catacombs leaned down

"Answer him!" He commanded.

"Yes." I quietly responded.

"Good. Now. Seeing how your sloppy theft resulted in the imprisonment of our king, your choices are very slim. We can leave you to die in the catacombs, or we can hang you." The man explained, crouched down to just above me. He paused and glanced at me. I stare past him, gazing up through the large ceiling of the strange room which seemed to stretch on for days. I blinked deeply, the focusing of my eyes causing stress and pain to my aching head.

"Or.." He interrupted only himself "You can go. Bring him back for us, and live. "

I shook my head slightly, in disbelief. "What?" I asked meakly.

The man scowled back down at me. "Clopin is imprisoned in the Palace of Justice. Whatever we have done to you here is nothing compared to the torture they enact to get thieves to confess, and our people to repent. Few come back at all." He spat. "To go in ourselves is to risk certain death. What do you say, girl. Redeem yourself, or die."

Harmon eyed the man, concerned "It will be her death as well!" He protested, grabbing the man by the shoulder. The man shook away Harmon's hand.

"She signed for her death long ago. At least she will die being useful to us." The man stood up "You have one evening to decide." He peered down at me. "I would consider your options.. Take her to the cell." He commanded, and the two other men reached down again to pick me up once more. I glanced at Harmon, who stood in disbelief, a look of concern and regret crossing his face. I nodded at him solemnly.

The two men took me to a small room with a pile of hay for a bed, shoved into a corner. As they lead me into the room, one of the men went behind my back and untied the rope from around my wrists. I stood, swaying in the door way as they both stood staring back at me. I pulled my arms from behind my back and watched as my hands shook unsteadily from in front of me. I turned my palms upside and noticed dried blood and dirt on both of them.

The men stared at me coldly from the doorway, before turning and closing the large wooden door behind them. I heard a chain and a lock from the other side of the door. As soon as I heard their footsteps walking away from the cell, I collapsed into the wall and crawled to the pile of hay on the other side of the room. I propped myself up and pulled my hands to in front of my face. Bright red gashes circled both of my hands from where the ropes had been tied for all this time. I rubbed both of them before placing them over my face and allowing a deep sob to erupt from within me. I closed my eyes and began to weep.


	8. Lumière du jour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart is an iron bell.

I opened my eyes to silence for the first time in a long blurr of restless awakenings. Huddled up on the pile of hay in the corner of the cell, I sat with my hands limp in front of my face. My head still hurt, and I could feel a sickness taking hold of my chest from laying in the catacombs for as long as I had. There was a torch placed in my cell, probably as I had been sleeping. I got the bearings of the small room and glanced down at myself. I was filthy.. covered in dried blood, dirt, soot. I held my hands out in front of my face and watched as they shook in the torchlight, covered in dirt. The marks from the rope on my wrists were deep, and red, and angry.

I reached my hand up to where my head had been throbbing, most likely where I had fallen and been knocked unconscious. I lightly touched the spot which was hurting and winced. I could feel a bruise and a small gash.

Despite having slept for so long, I was still exhausted. Perhaps the body shuts down as it tries to survive. It reminded me of so many long nights in London, sleeping on the street, waking in the night to find you'd have to move. When you're without a home, uninterrupted, restorative sleep is such a blessing.

In the catacomb, I had been uninterrupted. Left to my own memories, and likely my own death. I considered this for a moment, forgetting why I hadn't been hung. My memory had become so hazy. I was unsure how long I had been captive in this strange place, unsure of when I was awake or asleep or somewhere in between. Unsure of what was a dream, a memory, or the present.

I remembered the man shouting something along the lines of... having one night to decide... helping their king escape the... I remembered now. The palace of Justice. I remembered the words "certain death". I sighed heavily, unsure of what to do. Imagining helping free the man whose people had, in turn, imprisoned and abused me, and intended that I die; alone and forgotten, caused my stomach to turn. On the other hand... I was starving, exhausted, sore all over and was beginning to feel the burn of a sickness in my chest and throat.

To see the sunlight, even one last time, seemed a luxurious dream. I ran my fingers through my matted hair, filled with dirt and dust. As I sat weighing the options, the chain on the other side of the door boomed as it rattled open. I jumped slightly and braced myself.

The two big men who had dragged me from the catacombs stood in the doorway. I pushed myself to my feet as they walked towards me. They grabbed both of my arms and walked me out of the cell and back towards the large room from the night before. This time, a crowd stood around a tall gallow, whispering amongst themselves. I swallowed heavily as they walked me down past a number of tents set up, eyes peered out from flaps and behind stands. Children quietly stepped behind their parents. I tried to hold my head up, but I found it hard not to look at the faces of those who I passed. They peered at me curiously, sometimes angrily. One woman spat at my feet as we walked towards the stairs to the gallows.

The smaller man from the night before stood waiting on top of the stage, complete with a trap door and a noose dangling above it. The two men stopped just short of the man, who frowned at me, eyeing my reaction.

He turned to the crowd and began to shout "Ladies and Gentlemen. The english girl who crossed Clopin, our King." He turned and gestured towards me. A wave of whispers and some shouts in a language I did not understand were hurled my way. I glanced at the ground in front of us, trying to keep my head up even still. "It is because of her that he sits in the Palace of Justice, waiting for his execution. And that we find ourselves without protection."

"Hang her!" A voice cried out from the audience. I twitched slightly and the grip on my arms tightened.

"And we will! But first, we have given her a choice." The man turned to face me. "She fancies herself a thief, stealing from the homes she works in... Not a good enough one to avoid being caught with her hands in a pocket, but we aren't all blessed with the Gypsy slight of hand." The crowd whistled.

I breathed a quick laugh, remembering the feeling of Clopin's hand on the same pocket as mine. My mind grew very dark and I saw almost before me his eyes, wild and alone in a big dark room. I closed my eyes to rid myself of the image, but it had waited for me.

"The English girl can risk her own neck, to retrieve our King and bring him back safely, or she can swing and break her neck tonight in front of all you good people." Louder cheers erupted from the crowd. The man laughed "I know how you all feel! But let's ask the girl, shall we?" He approached me.

"I gave you the night, girl. What do you choose?"

The silence broke my thoughts and I glanced up at him, meeting his eyes once more. Back and forth, my eyes darted between sneering faces of the crowd. They leered at me, angrily. I locked eyes with Jaelle, standing near the back. Her eyes held onto me, sadly. She held her hand out in a fist in concerned prayer. Beside her, her husband Harmon kept his eyes fixed on the ground. My heart sank into my stomach, which let out a fierce growl in spite of itself. I faced one option, really. A violent death here, right now... Or a violent death following torture, later, to save a man I barely knew. I choked back tears, as the smell of cooking food and pipe smoke wafted through the air.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and the expression of Clopin's eyes had changed. The darkness asked me to join it, warm and quiet. 

Impatiently, the smaller man grabbed the noose and flung it around my neck, tightening it so it sat snug.

"You're running out of time, young lady!" He warned. I opened my eyes and nodded.

"I will go." I said quietly. The man smiled

"I'm sorry? I can't hear you!" He shouted behind him to the audience, pulling the noose even tighter. I raised my voice. "I will go to your king."

The man turned around with a sad look on his face. "I'm sorry everyone! This poor English street trash has decided to help us, and now none of us will get to see her die!" He turned back around to face me, and stepped in very close as the crowd sneered in disappointment, hurling things on the stage towards us as they slowly dispersed. Their speaking grew louder until it became a dull hum in the background. 

"You'll leave now." He sneered at me, yanking the noose back over my head. 

Dry air felt as though it was knocked out of me, it passed through my lips. Now?

"What?" 

"The first bells will be ringing soon. We can't waste anymore time." 

Two hands gripped at my arms, I didn't have to turn to know whose they belonged to. The man turned his back to me once more, and I was being dragged away. My heart hung, empty in its place. I thought about the bells of the great cathedral and it stirred, a great pain suddenly shaking the inside of my chest. The pain rang through me, almost as though my heart were one of the great iron giants in Notre Dame, sadly calling out in the bell tower with a lonely weight. 

I was pushed inside the tent, which held a small hay mattress and a blanket. A torch burned on the inside, next to a small table with a plate of bread and water. I ran to the plate and ripped off a large chunk, shoving it into my mouth as I hastily poured a cup of water. My hands were shaking as I almost choked, devouring the food and water simultaneously.

The flap of the tent brushed open and Jaelle stood in front of me, looking scornful. I gulped down my mouthful of food and turned to her. She averted eye contact.  
"Jaelle..." i said quietly. I went to grab her hands to thank her, but she pulled away from me suddenly.  
"Please. Do not touch me. You are marked with death... I'm sorry I could not have saved you..." She said sadly. I paused.

"Jaelle, it's alright... I'll... figure it out."  
She looked up into my eyes sharply.

"You do not understand. Where you're going is where my people fear to go. Sending you is merely a crueler execution"

The flap opened once again and a man thrust a pile of linens at Jaelle who took them from him. Jaelle gestured to a wash tub in the corner of the tent. "You must wash and change. If you've any hope of staying alive you have to look as though you never left."

I lifted my hand and gently touched the welt on the side of my forehead.

"I'll go fetch the hot water..." as Jaelle went to leave, she hesitated. She reached into a small pouch which she wore around her neck and produced a bundle of herbs tied together with red thread. She handed it to me. "Before you go to sleep tonight, burn half of this. Burn the other half before you leave in the morning. I hope it would protect you." She said quietly.

I took the herbs from her, watching as my bruised and dirty hands reached towards her withered but soft ones. I took it and closed my hand around it.  
"Thank you..." I muttered.

Jaelle kissed the knuckle of her index finger, and gently placed it to the welt on my forehead. She frowned at me once more before turning to leave the tent. When she left, I lifted the bundle of herbs to smell it. It smelled like the forest, and the night, and finding your way home.

I sat, still for a moment... Jaelle's words sinking further into my mind. A voice from outside caused me to jump.

"Mademoiselle..." The man's voice called through the canvas. I took a deep breath.

"One moment..." I responded, watching his feet. They did not move. "Please." I said, quietly. His boots turned around and stiffly moved further away from the entrance.

I wearily pushed myself off of the bed, the cold ground stinging my bruised feet. I walked toward the small table where the lantern and fresh pile of clothing was and unfolded the bundle.

The clothes looked almost identical to the ones I had been brought in wearing, only cleaner and a darker shade. I pulled the dress over my head and found that it was also a size or two smaller. I wondered who they had belonged to, and why they would have had them, as I pulled the bodice tighter around my body. I reached down and put on the new pair of stockings. I glanced down to the table and noticed a hand held mirror beside the wash basin. For a moment, I hesitated. I turned the lantern light up and reached a thin hand towards the mirror. As I picked it up, I held my breath and turned the mirror to face me.

It took a moment to even recognize myself... My cheekbones had sunk into the frame of my face. The welt on my forehead was a big dark bruise that pressed swollen into my brow. The gash on my mouth had begun to scab over. I lightly touched it and winced at the pain that my cold fingers brought. Quickly, I lowered the mirror back to the table. I grabbed Jaelle's bundle of herbs and tucked it in to the pocket of the dress. Taking one last look around the empty tent, I stepped out in front of it. The man stood with the two larger men who had guarded me in the catacombs. Behind them I caught a glance of Harmon's sad eyes.

The smaller man held my cloak as well as my boots. He thrust them out to me. In the cold morning I threw the cloak around my shoulders, finding comfort in the familiar, sturdy material. I took the boots and begun to unlace them.

"Harmon will guide you through an old exit back to the city. You will be able to find your way from there."

I slid the boots on, my feet finding the worn in grooves from each of my toes at the cold end of them. I dusted off some dirt that clung to the tips of each.

"How will I find you again?" I asked the man. His eyes flashed in response.

"If you find Clopin, you will find your way back." Was his answer. I wasn't sure what he meant, but was eager to leave and stopped asking questions. Standing up after tying up the last of my boots, the man slid forward suddenly, his gloved hand grabbing the side of my face, and leaning in to me. "And Mademoiselle..." He said in a low voice, locking eyes with me. "It would be unwise to run, and particularly unwise to think of bringing any soldier's down here with you. You are taking many eyes with you this morning..." His grip tightened on my jaw, clenching his thumb around my chin. I stared back at him tensely, keeping eye contact with him as means of a response.

He dropped his hand and Harmon pushed past the two larger men and found my arm, gently urging me away from the man.  
"We thank you for your service." the man tipped his large hat towards me, and I stared back at him as Harmon steered me away. The man's voice stung in my ears as Harmon lead me further away from it.

Harmon walked me through the village and deep within the catacombs, back to one of the long tomb-like hallways. He grabbed a torch as we entered back into the small space. Harmon walked swiftly in front of me, his pace did not slow down, and he would not look back at me directly. I hurried to keep up with him as we passed piles of skeletons and skulls, covered in cobwebs and dust. I would glance up to the back of his head every so often to try and get a glimpse of his face, but he would continue on ahead through the sudden turns and dips of the tunnels. Finally we made a turn and came to a small passage with a set of old stairs at the back. Harmon stepped to the side and held the torch out. I glanced up at him and he lowered his eyes.

"Do you have what Jaelle gave to you?" he said, finally in a quiet, sad voice. I reached into my pocket and produced the bundle of herbs. He guided my hand with the bundle towards the torch and it caught flame once again. Then, looking up and into my eyes, he drew a large circle around my face with the smoking bundle, using my hand to guide it, followed by a cross through the middle. I frowned at him. He softly took the bundle from my hands and placed it on the floor by the entrance to the hallway. "Be careful, Victoria." his deep voice was heavy but kind. I glanced down at the bundle softly burning by his feet once more and nodded at him.

"Thank you." I said, grabbing his arm and squeezing it gently. I pulled the hood of the cloak over my head and began down the short passage towards the stairs alone, watching the light from Harmon's torch dance on the walls and become softer towards the end. Without taking a last look behind me, I carefully climbed up the old stairs which groaned under my steps. At the top was a large piece of wood. I pushed on it and felt it move on top of me, it slid over awkwardly and some dirt and dust from above fell down a small crack onto the stairs. I moved it a bit more and a flood of crisp air filled my lungs. As the heavy door slid open finally, I pulled myself up from the tomb and into an old, abandoned building.

Some pigeons above me, startled, cooed amongst each other and flew further up into the decrepit wooden structure. I slid the door back in place and found my way to a doorway in the building. I glanced outside, the rising sun hid behind blankets of cloud, but I could see that morning had broken. A man pulled his horse and cart past the building, not noticing me. I waited a moment before ducking out into the street. The grey of daylight hit my eyes for the first time in so long. I winced a bit, my vision not used to the cold air or the brightness after so long underground. I cautiously walked towards a street corner and spun around, gathering my bearings. I was aways from my lodging where I was, and once I figured it out began to walk briskly back towards the neighbourhood where I had been taken from.


	9. Repent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No longer a home and the crow of the cathedral.

Feeling the stone beneath my steps and seeing the sleepy people begin to arise as the streets quietly become lifelike again filled me with calmness. I had survived this long, had made it out of the catacombs. My heart beat steadily. Unsure of how long I had been gone, I was worried that the landlady at the boarding house was suspicious, or if she had given away my things and rented the room out to someone else. I frowned imagining this, and her what would have been her enthusiasm towards a double wage for the room. I had decided in the cell that once released I would first go home to gather and sell some of my things, as well as the valuables I had taken from the houses I had been cleaning in order to find someone who could get me out of Paris safely. I had heard of men who could help me, who had safely helped prisoners and refugees out of or into the city, but as I could imagine, they would not be inexpensive. As I twisted through the streets of Paris, I turned a corner and the great towers of Notre Dame suddenly stood quietly over me, watching me. I glanced up at them, remembering them the day I had first seen Clopin, the morning I had been taken from outside my lodging. As people continued to awaken and begin their day, I felt the urgency to return to the flat. I quickened my pace slightly, seeing the corner of our street come into view. Finally reaching the corner, I quickly stepped around it, but when I laid eyes on the door to the boarding house, my feet turned into blocks of ice, and I froze with my hand out on the cold stone of the building next to me.

The sight had frozen me before I had realized what I was looking at. Two guards were leaving the boarding house with their swords drawn. Waiting outside on a horse was the captain of the guards and Jacques Desmarias, the man who I had cleaned for last before all of this had begun.

The guards placed their swords back in their sheaths and approached Jacques and their horses, holding a bag full of what I can only imagine contained a long list of stolen valuables from Desmarias residence. I could not breathe and I could not move as I watched the guards hand the bag to Desmarias and speak with the captain of the guards.

Jacques opened the bag and peered in. He reached his hand in and pulled out some of the jewelry I had taken and intended to sell, and nodded to the guards. The guards motioned back to the house, and the house's landlady emerged from inside. I gasped and flipped around the corner of the building, my heart beating faster than I had ever imagined. I hesitated only a moment before running back in the direction that I had come. Suddenly I was very unsure of everything. I had been reported; my name- and to some, my face were now known. Not only did this compromise any hope I could have at reaching Clopin in exchange for my safety, it also compromised my plan of escape. Everything of value had been in that room, and so little of it had even belonged to me.

My heart continued to race as I realized how ruined everything had become. Tears began to beat at the corners of my eyes and threatened to spill down my cheeks. I slid down a tight alley that ran parallel to the main street I had just come from, in hopes of remaining unseen. I turned a corner and once again my eyes fell onto the towers of Notre Dame. I paused, panting and out of breath.

Notre Dame... Quickly, I decided she would be my only chance. I pulled the hood of my cloak back up, and pushed my hair behind it. I pulled the front of the cloak together closely so it would conceal my clothes underneath. I took one last deep breath in the alley, before turning calmly out of the alley with my eyes averted onto the ground. I walked at a much slower pace on the street, glancing at each pair of feet that I passed or that passed me. The streets had begun to fill up more, and suddenly there were people everywhere and the streets were filled with commotion. My heart did not stop beating in my chest, I tried to calmly walk towards the steps of the church.

Horses passed by with guards feet dangling from the holsters. I kept my head down and eyes forward, trying not to let it cause me concern. Finally I saw the break in the crowd where the church square was. Holding my breath steady I walked as quickly as possible towards the massive church doors. On the second step leading up to Notre Dame, a beggar sat hunched over with a cup held out to the crowd, smoking a pipe. As I walked by the beggar I felt eyes burning into me and glanced up briefly to meet their eyes, a blazing emerald green. They locked eyes with me, knowingly. I could tell from their stare it was one of Clopin's people, they coldly watched as I passed by, quickly averting my eyes. My hands, tucked deeply into my cloak had begun to shake as I reached out toward the iron handle on the door.

I grasped the freezing metal and heaved the wooden structure towards me, finally cracking it open enough to slip inside. I used my body to push it closed and leaned against it, chest heaving and heart still pounding.

To contrast the busy morning on the streets outside, the magnificent church was sombre and silent. Only a few knelt in prayer on the pews of the church. It was much warmer inside, and the sound of candles flickering was all that could be heard under her incredible arches. I glanced up at the high vaulted ceilings of the church, in awe. I had heard of Gypsies who fled to Notre Dame to escape persecution, claiming sanctuary within her walls. Though I would not be able to stay here for very long, I knew I would not be safe on the streets with guards looking for me. If I could wait the week out, perhaps they would think I had already fled.. I thought for a moment, perhaps I could wait out the man from the catacombs and Clopin himself... but I remembered the man's warning, and the eyes of the beggar outside. They, too, would know where to find me.

I moved from the large doors of Notre Dame and lowered the hood of my cloak. Quietly I left the doors and in a silent trance and walked towards the pews of the church. I sat down in the furthest one and shuffled to the corner, feeling the grooves of the warm, old wood beneath my hands. The hushed whispered from bowed heads ahead of me were illuminated by the magnificent glass windows before them. The soft eyes of saints whose names I did not know gently glanced down at me, or up to the sky. I pulled my cloak around myself for warmth and leaned my head against the edge of the pew.

I regretted coming to Paris. Regretted wanting more than the life of a servant or a prostitute in a brothel, regretted leaving behind the other girls at the orphanage to pursue my own life... I stared down at my hands once more, the sleeves of my blouse pulled over the welts around both of my wrists, reminding me of my fate. Glancing once more into the caring, gentle eyes of the stain glass saint on the window before me, I let out a shaky breath. My body was exhausted from the catacombs, my mind could not keep up with all I was thinking about my fate, my future, or my past. I silently prayed that somewhere, someone other than the gypsies or the guards were thinking about me, and keeping me in their prayers as well.

My eyes slowly closed shut in spite of myself and I fell back asleep once more.

Suddenly, my eyes opened to a hollow ringing of the third bell from the tower above Notre Dame. The bell helped me to remember where I had been in my first few moments of weariness. From further away, the bells had always sounded so loud.. But here, up close and in their home, they seemed suddenly quieter and gentler. My neck ached from resting on the side of the pew. Yet still, after years of homelessness, I had slept in less comfortable situations. The final bell rang, but I was unsure of the time... it felt quite early, and the great church lay still and silent as the last bell's toll clung to each pillar in the great hall. I readjusted my cloak and went to shut my eyes again, when several feet behind me the doors flung open and harsh whispered voices filled the marble palace.

Frightened, I gathered my cloak and skirt and silently crept towards the confessional booth of the church. I shut the small door behind me, backing up onto the seat.

The whispers drew closer, and I positioned myself with my ear pressed to the crack of the old door.

"You most certainly will not!" I heard a familiar voice cry out  
"A disgrace. You can't harbour these ingrates forever, eventually, they will need to all be brought to justice." A much colder, harsher voice split the calm silence with fury.  
"Judge Frollo, this matter is not debatable!" The voice of the Archdeacon protested.

I gasped silently, pulling back from the door.  
"The judge..." I had heard of Frollo before, nothing of goodness or mercy. I also knew he was the ruler of the High Court at the Palace of Justice, and a cruel man he was, torturing and executing hundreds of the poor of Paris.

The voices past through to the hall of the church. My heart had begun to beat rapidly in my chest once again, the sound breaking the silence of the small booth. Did Frollo know about me? Had he come to find me here? I gathered my cloak and skirt up once more and pushed open the confessional door. I glanced at the empty church before leaving the confessional booth and beginning to walk quietly towards the front doors of the church once again. Nearing the door, the voices came around a corner all at once.

"If you have who you're looking for then why have you come?!" the Archdeacon cried, holding his lantern up to Frollo's cold face. Frollo knocked it away. I froze in place, in the middle of a step.  
"You act as though your cooperation is an inconvenience. Shall I remind you that in the King's absence that the church works for me?" Frollo hissed  
"How dare you!" The archdeacon replied. I felt a cold chill possess my body as my foot slipped and came down on the hard marble floor. Both men turned sharply to look at me, the Archdeacon's lantern held out in my direction.

"Who's there?!" Frollo called out. "Announce yourself!" I cleared my throat and stepped forward, unknowing of what to do, I bowed my head towards the two men.  
"Bonjour, Monsieur." I made my voice lighter and cleaner than it was. I felt the two men glance at one another.  
"My child, what are you doing here?" The Archdeacon asked quietly.

"Ah!" Frollo grunted "So you are harbouring fugitives, as I expected!" Frollo coughed, turning to the Archdeacon.  
I looked up and approached the two.  
The Archdeacon frowned at Frollo's words and peered at me in the dim light. The archdeacon's face softened and his glance grew flighty. He laughed lightly, but insincerely.

"Frollo you misunderstand, this is simply one of the new servants of the monastery. She assists in cleaning... Uh, Mademoiselle..." The deacon peered at me, Frollo eyeing him suspiciously. "Sergeant, Oui." He continued. I smiled as pleasantly as I could in spite of the fear and exhaustion that overpowered my mind, managing to bow my head once again.

Frollo approached me. At this proximity I could see what made the tall, elderly man so terrifying. He towered over me as though he were a great, old crow, awaiting the remains of a ill fated hunt. He stared down his razor sharp beak at me, I could feel his eyes plucking at my flesh. 

"A servant..." He repeated, meditating. I choked back tears of nervousness, my eyes pressed at his feet.

"Is it not the duty of your Monks to assist in the cleanliness of their Monastery, Archdeacon?" Frollo's words crackled like embers in a dying flame, his eyes burning through me even as I avoided their gaze. The archdeacon fumbled

"But of course, however..." he hesitated.

"However-" The judge interrupted "To be an unmarried, young woman in a city such as this poses such risk, such potential for sin." his word's hung in the air like heavy smoke, threatening to take the air from each of my breath. I held my breath and risked glancing up to meet his eyes for a second. He peered down at me in suspicion, his eyes ripping through me, I averted them immediately.

The Archdeacon faked a laugh again. "Exactement!" The Archdeacon exclaimed. Frollo paused, studying my lack of response.

"How considerate of you." At last, Frollo turned from me to the Archdeacon. "But really, the church should not have to burden itself so with these filthy children of the streets. A church is no place for an unmarried woman who is not of god, after all." Frollo continued, sliding behind me and placed his cold, thin hand on my shoulder.

The Archdeacon stammered, attempting to protest, but the judge interrupted him once again.

"And now that you mention it, the Palace is short a servant since one of our own had been caught- stealing." His fingers tightened their icy grip on my shoulder. Petrified, my eyes stayed on the marble floor. The Archdeacon glanced at me, sadly. "A skillful worker such as her could prove invaluable." To protest further would rouse a greater suspicion. I swallowed back the fear that hung in my throat. I turned to Frollo.

"My lord.. If the Palace of Justice should require my service, I will gladly give it." I said, quietly. Upon hearing my accent, the judge's eyes narrowed, but he smiled in spite of this. The Archdeacon's face fell in the darkness.

"What an obedient girl." The judge cooed, closer to my ear than I had ever hoped he would be. A chill ran down the back of my neck.

"Frollo..." The Archdeacon stammered, defeated.

"Perhaps you could take a lesson from Mademoiselle... Sergeant." Frollo hissed again. I shot a look to the Archdeacon, hoping he would understand and back down.

"Very well..." The man of god finally said, his voice heavy. "We will make arrangements to have the girl sent over this morning--"

"My good man" Frollo laughed "It is already morning, and I will be leaving here for the Palace immediately. I would be more than happy to escort the girl there myself, if you could see to it her things be sent over."

The glee in the judge's voice once more sent a chill down my spine. I was unsure if he knew who I was, or, if he had simply sensed the Archdeacon's caution and hoped to disturb it. My heart dropped, and I feared the cruel man at my back could sense it fall to the floor. The Archdeacon averted his gaze from me, defeated.  
"Very well." He repeated, somberly. "Mademoiselle." He nodded to me. "May god be with you..." 

Frollo's grip on my shoulder guided me to turn around as he did, walking briskly towards the doors of the church

"Archdeacon. A pleasure, as always." Were the judge's last words to the man of god, who stood hopelessly in the darkness of the church.

My stomach fell to the pit of my body, in tight knots once again. Tears burned at my eyes, but the fear of Frollo noticing overpowered my desire to weep. I wanted to turn and run, perhaps to be killed in flight. Next to the catacombs and even the noose, Judge Frollo's hand on my shoulder as he lead me out of the beautiful building was the most cruel, and it was the most terrified I had ever felt. I swallowed heavily. As he opened the door, I felt his eyes on me, and the cold wind flew in from the world outside.

His coach awaited in front of the church, a large, black and terrifying steed stood before it. Two armed guards stood next to their horses, and once the Judge followed me outside they both snapped to attention. Frollo guided me towards one of the guards.

"Bring her to the Palace with me." he instructed. The soldier, an absent look plastered to his face nodded sternly.  
"Yes, sir." he responded mechanically. The judge passed behind me and walked towards his coach. My eyes did not dare to look up, but the solider grabbed me around the waist and brought me up on to the front of his saddle. Immediately my whole body began to shake, as I had never ridden on-top of a horse before. The soldier mounted behind me, and before I knew what was happening, the soldier kicked his armoured heel into the great horse and we trotted away from the church.

This time, I did take one sad look behind me, truly unsure if I were ever to see the beautiful church again. A sharp movement of the horse jolted me forward and I struggled to sit up right despite the cold armour that sat on either side of me.

The horse trotted ahead of the carriage and I tried to steady myself as we weaved through the narrow streets of the city, waking as slowly as it had the day before. Shop keepers peered out and kept their shutters low at the sound of horses in the streets so early in the morning. I pulled the hood of my cloak closer around my face, in concern of someone further recognizing me, and tried to both steady myself and keep the hood closed at the same time. I had stopped shaking as much, becoming used to the pace of the horse. I smiled a bit behind the thick wool of my cloak, enjoying the vantage point of the streets and the market from on top of the horse. I reached a hand out and felt its warm body stress under our weight as it walked.

We arrived before long and I glanced up past the top of my hood and to the large stone building that stood before us. I had seen this building before, but it had always faded into the backdrop of the city next to the stocks and gallows that were set up in front of it, some days leading lines of sad, poor people to their painful deaths. My blood turned cold as I passed it, the guard guiding me towards the door to the building. Behind me I heard Frollo's horse and carriage approach and I hesitated for a moment on the top step. Why had he brought me here? What did he know, and what did he intend to do? I feared for my life yet again, though, entering the dark, stone building I remembered that somewhere in this strange and terrifying place was the man who could return to me my freedom, as well as the man who could permanently end it.

I shuddered as I entered the great hall and was met with dim lighting and silence.  
"Wait here." The guard instructed, nudging me slightly towards the wall.

I was silently hoping that I could avoid Frollo again, when the door opened and he entered, lifting his robe to enter the palace, followed by two armed guards. He glanced at me from the side of his eye, silently walking up the main steps. As he disappeared upstairs, I noticed I had been holding my breath. To be brought here and not to know why was a cruel kind of torture, I was afraid that a horrible fate lay in this place with me in store.

Suddenly a young woman in servant attire emerged from the back hallway and came towards me, motioning for me to follow her. She had a kind face, and it seemed out of place in the courthouse and prison. I glanced around anxiously, following her up a back staircase and towards a servant quarters. I winced as she opened a door at the back of the hall, surprised to see it opening onto a light filled room, with two small beds against each wall, both made up with sheets. On top of one bed lay a set of clothes- the uniform. A wash sink and lantern sat on a small table in front of the window, which looked out across roof tops towards the river.

"Oh.." I murmured, surprised. I took the hood down from my cloak and moved towards the window, staring out at the sunrise. The woman spoke to me in French, which I understood some of, gathering that this was my uniform and that we ate once in the mornings and once in the evenings. I turned to her and she left the room, giving me a kind look and shutting the door behind her. As she left I sat on the edge of the bed, my eyes fixed out the window. Did they treat their servants well here? Had I truly been brought to clean? It seemed sinister and suspicious to me, but the gentle daylight flooding through the window reminded me I had not had a proper room or meal in quite some time... Perhaps the past few weeks had left me callous, perhaps the wheel had now spun again in my favour.


	10. Oubliette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A place to be forgotten and a reminder.

The first morning passed by in an eerie calm. There were around eleven servants of the Palace of Justice, twelve if you counted the executioner and there were possibly more working in the dungeons that I was unsure of. The only time we were all in the same place would be during our meals. I quickly realized who worked in the kitchen and the stables and who were domestic servants left to cleaning and laundry. I was fed as well as I have ever been, and my quarters were individual as there were still not enough staff to fill each room. After several days, I had learned much about the large building, and had begun to suspect where the dungeon may be, as it was in a part of the building I was instructed to avoid. I still lead each day cautiously, the threat of being discovered or reprimanded always at the back of my mind like storm clouds sitting on the horizon for days without drawing closer or further.

I felt like a bug who had been brought deep into the web of a spider. I tried to be aware of Judge Frollo at all times, hearing his footsteps through the palace early in the morning as he assumed his position in the court, or very late at night as he would retire. The distinct, harsh step of his heel rang through the old halls as if it were a death toll. I would stop what I was doing and listen, breath very still, to see if they were coming towards me, the hairs on the back of my neck standing pin straight. In the evenings I would watch the servant in the kitchen prepare his meals, always taking more care and preparing a different arrangement for him, carrying it silently into the dining hall from the servant table in the kitchen.

The first few nights I awoke late and to darkness, feeling as though someone were holding me down in my sleep. A phantom chain weighed heavy on my ankle, and as the days passed it felt lighter. I slept soundly and dreamlessly for the first time that I could remember, sore and exhausted from a full day's work and proper meals.

I had barely noticed when the full week had passed. In fact, the day itself had passed like any other. After dinner we retired to our chambers and I undressed, filling the wash basin with a small amount of water from the pitcher next to the lantern. I examined the injury on my head. As each day passed it changed a deeper shade of purple or blue, but tonight next to the lantern was the first time I noticed it had begun to fade around the edges and shrink in size, taking my concern about the catacombs, the gypsies and their king with it.

Being in the Palace of Justice itself, I felt as though I would be unreachable. Why would a gypsy risk their neck to come where so many of them had been imprisoned, tortured and executed? I splashed the water on my face and rolled up the sleeves of my blouse. I glanced down at the rings around my wrists, which had begun to scar and fade themselves. Before long the bruises and scabs would fade and everything would seem like a terrible dream. I unwrapped the cloth from my hair and it spiraled out of it, falling down to my back. I pulled it aside and looked myself in the eye. Whatever had happened that had brought me here, to this position of safety and security, was luck, or fate. Perhaps god had been listening after all. I turned up the bed linens and lowered the lantern, sliding into the warm bedding. Exhausted from the day of work, I slipped silently into a deep sleep.

My eyes opened to the sound of a door creaking slowly open. I held my breath, unsure if I were dreaming. Hesitantly, I turned my eyes towards the door which was now open a slight crack. My heart dropped and began to beat heavily. I lay silently, watching the darkness of the hall and waiting for a sound. When I heard light footsteps outside of the door I sat up and reached towards the lantern on the wash table. I stepped out of the bed, trying to minimize the sound of every movement. Striking a match, I lit the lantern and turned it low, the light illuminating the door, still open a crack, with darkness still on the other side.

Very cautiously I stepped towards the door and grasped the handle, holding my breath for as long as I could before carefully opening the door further. I paused and flung it open, meeting empty darkness on the other side. I frowned, holding my lantern out to the hall. It could have been the wind, and yet, I felt an unmistakeable presence. From the corner of my eye I noticed a shadow shift, moving down the stairs, I turned to it, hoping to expose it with lantern light, but was met again with the dark stair case.

A sound of light footsteps echoed from the bottom of the staircase. They rapidly crossed the empty hall, like wings of birds in cold weather attics. I tried to steady my breath and paused, glancing back at my open door and the empty servant hallway. I began to creep down the stairs as quietly as possible. The wood beneath my frozen bare toes groaned dramatically, and the flame in my lantern flickered, as unsteady as my hand on the banister. When I reached the bottom of the staircase a freezing breeze swept across my ankles, sending a chill up my spine. The door to the kitchen swung in the wind, clunking on its wrought iron hinges. The sound itself was so loud it frightened me- frightened that someone might hear it and would wonder why I was downstairs, frightened at the noise itself, and the whistling of the wind from the other side.

I frowned, approaching the door silently and took a deep, brave breath. My shaking hand pressed against the smooth wood and I pushed against the wind, opening the heavy door inwards to the kitchen. The room was pitch black and still. My lantern filled it with a dim light and over the heavy beating of my heart I glanced around, afraid of meeting a pair of eyes, or an animal, or worse. The kitchen was still and sleepy, but my eyes shot towards the door at the back of the room, open a wide enough gap that the moonlight from outside cascaded onto the stone floor, and the wind ripped around the corner harshly. I let the door shut softly behind me and approached the moonlit door to the courtyard out back. As I drew closer the cold of the strong wind froze me to the bone. The lantern sat shaking in my hands and I grabbed the door, pulling it open towards me and allowing for the sharp fall wind and the moon to flood into the kitchen. I began to shiver, standing in my bedgown in front of the courtyard, basked in shadows and moonlight. I stood for a second and listened, the wind and the creaking of a distant door or shop sign greeting me in the frozen, early morning. As soon as the the frost began to make my toes ache, I turned to go back inside, relief washing over me instantly.

Just as I had turned a warm laugh filled the darkness. I turned sharply, thrusting the lantern out in front of me, it illuminated a figure for a split second, as a gloved hand knocked the lantern onto the stone ground of the servant's courtyard. I gasped and another gloved hand reached around my head from behind, covering my mouth. I barely heard the shatter of the lantern over the beating of my own heart, as I was pulled out of the moonlight and towards the shadow filled alley next to the Palace wall. The grip of a large man held me tightly against his tall frame, and even from the backlit silhouette from the light of the moon behind the second man, I knew the Gypsy king's henchmen had come for me.

"My dear, do you know what day it is?" His familiar voice filled me with sadness and shame. I was foolish to have believed they would have forgotten, to have left me here. I shouted from behind the gloved hand which tightened its grip over its mouth. The man with the hat glanced at the larger man holding me and nodded. As the man pulled his hand from my mouth and let go, I whispered harshly  
"What are you doing here?!"

The smaller man in the hat lifted a finger to my lips, a reminder to keep my voice down. I waved it away. "Do you have any idea what could happen to all of us-"  
"We had an agreement. Your life as you know it is borrowed from us!" He whispered back.

"You're already here! Just take him then!" I responded, raising my hushed voice as much as I felt I could.  
"If we could have done that, we wouldn't need you!" He nearly shouted and I glared at him, terrified. His eyes narrowed, pleased. "Quite the position you've found yourself in. None of us could have ever dreamed that this would work out so well for us, we assumed you would be hanging in the square by now, since it seems as though your vagrant past has caught up with you." I heard the sly smile in the darkness.

"Believe me, by now I wish that I was." I turned and glanced up at the man from over my shoulder, who stared down at me, blankly. The man in front of me slid his hand forward from the shadow and grasped my neck with his glove, in his familiar, threatening way.'

"There is still time, my dear." He smiled again. I frowned in response, glancing away from his gaze. "What's wrong, cherie? Don't you like to be kept as Frollo's pet?" He ran his gloved thumb over my chin and towards my mouth, and I closed my eyes. The sound of Frollo's name froze me to the bone again, reawakening my shivering. I twitched under his grip and returned my gaze to his cloaked face.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, sternly. He held his hand for a moment, and in the darkness I felt his eyes searching my face. He pulled his hand back, exposing my neck to the cold wind once more.  
"Have you learned where the dungeon is? Where the cells are?" The man asked.  
"I believe so..."  
"You must find out for certain. Both Frollo and the dungeon guard will have a set of keys to the doors in the Palace of Justice, skeleton keys to each of the cells. One key is all we need. An experienced thief such as yourself should have no trouble procuring one for us. We will return in three days for you, the key and Clopin. After that, your life is yours once again." I felt the sly smile cross his face once more.

My heart fluttered. To steal from Frollo himself, the one man I have yet to meet whose presence reeks of death. The cold and the demands began to make me dizzy. My breath was shaking as I tried to understand.  
"You mean..." I stammered, shivering more than before. I stepped away from the man, backing up onto the larger man who stood behind me. I felt his giant hands clasp around my shoulders, not so much gripping me as holding me in place. My feet began to burn against the freezing ground.

"Are you not up to the task? Perhaps we should have Frollo escort you home?" He sounded amused as he mocked my terror. Tears, either from the cold, or my fear, welt up in my eyes and I looked at the floor again, shivering and breathing heavily. "You must ask yourself-" The man snapped, impatiently "Which do you fear most? To die, slowly and alone, deep underground the city? Or the Judge Frollo?" It was a question I had been asking myself in the week I had been a servant, but not one I had gotten any closer to answering. 

I wiped a tear away from my eye and grasped both of my shoulders, my icy fingers on top of the large, gloved hands of the man behind me and began to shiver violently. The large man behind me suddenly spoke, causing the man in front of me to break his glare from my face.

"We must go." He said, quietly but sternly. The man glared back at him and leaned in closely to me.  
"In three days, mademoiselle, all that will matter is that you have the key. If not, and you're not dead by then, I will see to it that you will be."

As he spoke his final words, the two figures slipped into the courtyard leaving me shivering in the dark alley. I ran after them, my frozen bare feet barely able to keep me standing, but even a few steps behind them and they were gone from the courtyard in an instant. I held myself as I quickly ran to the back door of the kitchen. I pulled it shut as a gust of wind blew towards me, pushing the door back open. I stood behind the door and shut it and firmly and quietly as I could, leaning my back against it. I closed my eyes and tears rolled down my cheeks. I stood shivering, breathing heavily in the dark kitchen for a moment before creeping back to my room in the pitch black, the wind whistling through each old window in the haunting Palace of Justice.


	11. Voleur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The heart is a locked cell in the Palace of Justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit long to keep things moving.

The morning after I awoke with the others to the early morning bell. I would have passed the early morning visit off as a terrible dream, the moonlight, the whispers, the threats. But as I opened my eyes and turned to the wash table next to my bed, I noticed the missing lantern and a fear shot down my spine as I remembered the encounter. And then, I shot up in bed, as I remembered the sound of the lantern glass shattering on the cold ground of the courtyard. I quickly dressed and washed, heading as fast as possible towards the kitchen downstairs. Nobody should have been out there yet, and I still had a chance to grab the lantern and hide the broken pieces before the day had begun.

I pulled my hair up and covered it with the head cloth we had been provided for working. I shut the door to my chambers and hurried past the closed doors of other women preparing for the day ahead. The kitchen and servant dining hall were mostly empty, and few had come to pay attention to me since I had been in the Palace. And yet, a distinct feeling as though someone was watching me followed me out to the courtyard. I pushed open the heavy door and took a step into the cold and wet early morning. As I looked down to the ground to find the shattered lantern my breath sharply stopped. The glass and the lantern were gone. I looked around to see a trace of them, but there were none. How could this be? As I frantically looked back and forth across the same spot, the feeling of eyes at my back began to grow.

The back of my head began to burn as though eyes pierced through me and the familiar chill crept up my neck once more. I turned cautiously to a window by the stairs at my back. The glare of the bright grey sky masked whatever was behind that window, but by each hair that stood up straight on the back of my neck, I knew who it was. I took a deep breath and turned back slowly, shaking out my skirt in an act to seem intentional. I pressed the skirt down and opened the door back to the kitchen. I tried not to let the moment get the better of me, despite the fact that I had felt the blood drain from my face, and that my hands dared to begin to shake. I felt as though if I acted normally, it could conceal any odd behavior. Such as wandering around a courtyard, looking for something, suspiciously. Still, I could not eat breakfast that morning. I watched the servant carefully as she carried Frollo's plate out of the kitchen after all of the servants had finished their meal, and I had started work.

I kept as close to the entrance of the Palace as possible all morning. I waited impatiently for the Judge to leave the Palace, in order that I might try and locate the door to the prison cells below. Finally, just after midday, I heard the Judge's sharp footsteps echo through through the hallway above me and eventually down the stairs. I cautiously leaned back to see through the door from the kitchen where I had been helping to store the food from the week's market. I watched Frollo and his guards exit the Palace and the front door closed behind them. I waited a few moments before finding a reason to excuse myself, making my way out of the kitchen as casually as possible.

Once I was finally alone I took a short, deep, breath. The dungeon for the Palace of Justice was on the other end of the large structure. I rarely saw anyone enter, or leave, and believed that there was a second entrance and exit separate from the rest of the clergy house. I stood still for a moment and said a silent prayer for myself. I needed to move fast, in order to return before the Judge would be getting back- whenever that might be. Generally he would leave around this time, and it would grant me an hour or so in the least. I hurried through the corridor that connected both ends of the Palace together. As the passageway led outside I pulled my head cloth up to the sides of my face in hopes it would be hard to be recognized if seen. I moved swiftly, relieved that there was not a soul in sight. Other servants had spoken of the prison. The foul smells of mud, rotting flesh and blood that it would emit. Late at night, they spoke of the screams and the whispers and the prayers that they heard passing the small windows, down below street level that would open up to cracks beneath the streets of the city.

I tried to focus on the task at hand as I passed through the open passageway, the cold biting at my exposed arms, neck and face. I quietly approached the large wooden door at the other end, placing my hand gently on it and pushing. It opened with a slight groan into a dark and dirty room, dim torches lit on each side. Rats huddled in the corner as I shut the door behind me, the small amount of light from the day illuminating wooden rafters filled with cobwebs and sleeping birds peering down at me. I knew at once where I was, as the bitter smell of dried blood crept through the air. A chair was pushed against a far wall, where I would have expected a guard to be posted. I stepped out into the straw covered stone floor, and noticed another large door shrouded in darkness beside the chair. The room stood still in a deafening silence, only a small flicker from the torches on the wall dared to move. Every part of me pleaded with myself to turn around, to confess, to surrender or to escape, to run away and not stop until I was out of this dreadful city. Standing in the small dark room with only darkness ahead of me, every part of me knew I was not supposed to be here, and that taking the next few steps was certainly beyond where I could go. And yet, another part of me, the part that still thought sometimes of the dark brown eyes of the man who had eventually led me here, the eyes of the man for who I was risking my life to save, begged me to go on, for just a little more, as I had already come so far and had so much to lose.

I pushed my fear to the back of my mind and stepped towards the large door, an iron handle hanging from it like a noose. As I approached it I cautiously grabbed the cold, Iron handle and pulled, but the sound of a heavy latch rumbled as the door did not budge. I frowned at the door, noticing a key hole below the handle. I crouched down and steadied myself on the door, bringing my right eye as close to the keyhole as I could come. The other side of the door was much, much darker. It was silent, and the air on the other side was heavy. Small windows built high up, above the head of any man, cast a sliver of light into the room. I could see there were many cells that lined a hallway, piles of straw pushed up into the corner of each and thick iron bars for doors. I glanced around the room, trying to see some more details. I shifted my weight and turned my head some more so I could see further into my room, but just as I had moved, the door behind me swung open. I jumped, hitting my head on the iron handle from below. I stood up quickly, the guard for the dungeon standing before me. He asked me what I was doing there in French and I stammered. The man, tall and armoured put his hand to his sword, approaching me quickly as I hesitated. I glanced beside me and noticed an pile of old plates from the kitchen, covered in rotting food and stacked in a corner.

"I just came to- I was sent for..." I tried to explain in French as well, gesturing to the plates beside me. I crouched beside them and began to bundle them up in my hands, fumbling a few and dropping old food onto the straw floor. The guard watched me, alarmed. As I continued to pile the plates up, I watched as he dropped his hand from his sword and relaxed.  
"You want to see what's in there?" He asked me, his harsh accent pushing the words through his stained and crooked teeth. I shook my head no, averting my eyes to the floor.  
"I was just ... curious..." I mumbled softly.  
The guard approached the door with a large iron key ring. I glanced at the ring, remembering the words of the gypsy man. I tried to note the key that he put in the door but they all looked the same.  
"I will show you!" He sneered.  
"No, please, sir" I stammered. Using the back of my neck, he pushed me towards the steps of the dungeon and nudged me enough so I tripped over the first step, the plates in my hand falling down them and into the room. The guard cackled as he watched me pick them all up, kneeling at the bottom of the steps to the dungeon. As I knelt in the filthy, cold room I suddenly felt phantom eyes burning into me from a few of the cells, muffled whispers echoing through the haunted, dark cells. Hurriedly, I ran up the two stairs to the door to the dungeon, the guard blocking my way.  
"I must return with these." I said quietly. He sized me up for a moment before turning to let me pass him.  
"The next time you might not be so lucky." He hissed as I passed him, leaving the small room and shutting the door behind me.

That night I lay in bed, considering each possible outcome and opportunity for retrieving the lock in time. I would not be able to take the keys from the dungeon guard himself, as I suspect that they would be there most days, the key on a thick iron ring around their belts. My only other option was to discover where Frollo kept the keys to the dungeon, and be sure that these cells were where they had been keeping the Gypsy King. My chance would be to retrieve the key on the third day, after the Judge had left the Palace once again in the late evening. Then, when the King's henchmen would come for us, I would have the key ready without the Judge knowing it had been taken. I tossed and turned as I considered each detail, and the safest way to remove the key without being found. After a sleepless night, the sun rose on the second day that I had left until I would be returned for.

In the morning, I sat quietly during breakfast, staring absently into the bowl of hot oats before me. I pushed it around a bit, unable to bring myself to eat. I thought about the dark cells in the dungeon corridor, the stale, damp smell that reminded me of the catacombs. I thought about the broken lantern pieces, and who could have picked them up. I thought about the eyes of the Gypsy king that burned into me that day in the square. Most of all, I thought about Judge Frollo, and the icy presence that weighed upon me each day that I had spent in the Palace of Justice. In an instant I looked around and noticed the last of the other servants had left the servant's dining hall. A brief moment of panic washed over me, as I wondered if anyone had noticed my behaviour or found it odd... I gathered the remainder of my bowl and dumped it into the trough bucket to be given to the butchers. I brought my bowl around to the wash bucket which was when I noticed something I hadn't before. Hanging on a nail, an iron keyring with several keys hung. I dropped my bowl into the bucket and looked around cautiously before removing the keys and closely inspecting them. These must have been the skeleton keys for this part of the Palace. My heart started beating with excitement and I realized how I could procure the keys for the cell.

As they looked identical to the keys the guard in the dungeon had around his belt the day before, I could use these keys to unlock Frollo's study. If I could find where he kept his keys to the cells, I could replace them with the servant keys until the Gypsy's men came for us. I tried to steady my hand and slipped the keys into an inner pocket I had sewn between my apron and skirt. I had yet to hear Frollo's entrance to the Palace, and had a small window of opportunity to ensure the plan would work. I gathered a cloth and bucket in order to cover for my presence in the judge's study. If I hadn't been so relieved to have an option at last, I may have hesitated, I may have been nervous or even rethought the plan itself. But with freedom within my reach I didn't hesitate, or rethink. I reached a steady hand out to open the servants door and headed up the stairs, past the servants quarters and towards the hallway of studies and notaries in the Palace.

I was not exactly sure which of the iron-clad wooden doors lead to the Judge's study in the long hallway with its cathedral ceilings arched out of stone, except that I was sure it would be further down the hall. Each day for two weeks I had listened to Frollo's steps from the floor below, noting the direction they were going from above me, and how far down the hall they would emerge from. As I began to carefully walk down the hall, I passed by a number of open doors, light streaming in from the world outside, encouraging me to follow through with my assignment. It had been so long since I had been out in the world for longer than a few moments and truly felt the air. In some ways I even missed the cold, the harsh reminder that I was still alive. For a moment I slipped into a daydream, planning where I would go once released by the Gypsy people. I planned for somewhere warmer. I stopped outside of the one closed door in the hall, the light from beneath the door seemed a little dimmer. From where I had heard the footsteps of the judge, this would have made sense for his study. As I drew closer to the door, the emerging sense of dread that stained every inch of the doorframe, and the tension I sensed from behind the door confirmed my intuition. I lowered the bucket full of water to the ground and quietly I reached into my pocket and pulled out the key ring. I slid one of the skeleton keys into the heavy iron lock when I heard a voice from the otherside, causing me to freeze immediately.  
"Monsieur, we've tried. He has not said a word."  
"Then you have not been trying hard enough!" the hiss of Frollo spat back. I silently withdrew the key and stood motionless at the door as though in an instant I had been turned to stone. I must have not heard him at the entrance this morning...

"Monsieur, please, there has to be another way. It's been weeks. By now they could have moved and we are nowhere near closer to finding out where they might be."  
"You insolent leveter, what do you know of gypsies more than I do?!" Frollo responded. "He is their king. I'm surprised they haven't come for him already..." 

I crouched down beside the keyhole, holding my breath to still myself to listen closer.  
"But Monsieur! We should hang him while we have the chance" said the guard.  
"No, you fool. We should not. I have not kept him imprisoned for weeks to produce another dead gypsy. When they come for him, we will be ready. And we will find out where their underground kingdom is, and where..." Frollo trailed off for a moment, his voice growing weak.

"Sir?"  
"Enough. Return to the cell. Try something else, whatever, it doesn't matter anymore. They'll come soon enough."  
"Yes sir." the guard responded sternly. Armoured footsteps accompanied by the thick heel of Frollo came towards the door. I slid the key ring into my pocket and stepped back quickly right as the door opened. The guard, startled reached for his sword and Frollo's eyes burned as he saw me standing in the hall. He motioned for the guard to take his hand off and narrowed his eyes.  
"And what are you doing here?" it had been the first time he had spoken me directly since that first morning in Notre Dame. A familiar sickness filled the pit of my stomach and I stood, blinking in response.   
"Well?!" He barked.  
"The... notary... sir..." I stammered, averting my eyes from his cruel face. 

The guard relaxed his position, but Frollo's eyes darted away from me for a moment as well before he smiled, amused.  
"Why you foolish child..." He began, he slid to my side and put a bony hand on my back, the dark sickness in my stomach intensifying. "The notary is down the hall, this way" He stretched out a thin finger towards the other end of the hallway, pushing his hand into my back to gesture me away from his study.  
"Oh.. Yes.. My mistake, sir." I responded. The guard watched me suspiciously as I lowered my head, grabbed the bucket at my feet and passed by them both quietly. As I made my way to the other end of the hall I heard the Judge lock the door firmly before leaving the hallway, the guard following close by.

From inside the notary I closed the door and pressed myself against it, catching my breath. I wanted so badly to feel the relief that I had earlier, but this didn't feel right. Being seen next to his study as they were discussing Clopin filled me with unease and dread. I stood breathing heavily pressed against the door. Had my only chance passed? Was it too late? Tears of frustration surfaced and I struggled to choke them back. I had been so close...

I paused and looked out the window of the notary to the rooftops of the city before me. If I didn't try, the gypsies would surely inform Frollo as to who I was, I would be imprisoned, if not executed. If Frollo was suspicious, and caught me exchanging the key, I felt as though something much worse would happen. 

The words of the Gypsy man burned in my head as he asked me again and again if I feared Frollo or a life of imprisonment more than death... finally, once again, the dark brown eyes of Clopin flooded into my mind. I asked myself if the evil I knew were truly better than the one I did not? But then, staring out at the city, I suddenly knew. If this were my final chance at freedom, I had to take it. I collected myself and left the notary, returning the key to the kitchen and my tasks for the day.

I decided that late that evening, I would retrieve the keys from the kitchen once more and exchange them in the Frollo's study. The following evening, I would prepare to meet the men from the Court of Miracles by the dungeon.

The day passed much faster than I had hoped. As I finished dinner, I glanced up at the key ring to ensure it was still there before washing my bowl with the others and retiring to my quarters. I climbed into bed, still dressed except for my shoes. I turned the lantern low and pulled the sheets over myself. I lay in the dark and began to think back to when I first arrived in Paris.

I had met with Yvette's family. They housed me for a few weeks and I assisted them with sorting the material they would sell in the market. It was traded from lands far away from ours, and I have yet to encounter material as luxurious or magical as what they sold. After a few weeks, they informed me that their son had been working from a household just outside of the city and they would need another servant when he returned to assist the family. The home was unlike any I had ever seen. A wealthy merchant lived in the glorious home with his young wife. She was slender, with golden hair that would be fixed on top of her head in beautiful braids. She was kind, and quiet. Her handmaid was an older woman whose name I immediately recognized as English. Matilde had come from England when she was quite young, as her father was a farmer in the Provincial countryside. Matilde helped me through the new language and customs, showing me how to properly wash clothes and floors. Her face was fragmented with smile lines and her voice carried a bright spark which she brought with her to every room.

One day, the lady of the house had been away with her husband for some time. As I scrubbed the staircase of the manor, Matilde walked down the steps, stopping on the one just before me. I paused and looked up into her glowing eyes.  
"Oui, Madame?"  
"Victoria..." Her warm voice paused. She reached down and took my hand in her soft, worn one. Matilde glanced down at it as she held it gently. "Would you come with me for a moment?" she asked. I frowned, confused.

"But the washing..." I began. She smiled at me, almost a bit mischievous. I smiled back, unsure and she took the brush from me and returned it to the bucket. "Just for a moment" She implored, still holding my hand and guiding me down the steps and towards her quarters. She brought me into the room and sat me before a large mirror.  
"Matilde..." I smiled at her in our reflection. She perched beside me and stared into my eyes through the mirror, suddenly serious.  
"Are you happy here, child?" She asked. I paused for a moment, taken aback by the question.  
"I... I'm not sure? I'm very grateful to be here, and to serve a kind family..." I began.  
"But are you content?" Matilde asked again, the warm flicker in her eye staring back at me through the mirror. I averted my eyes and shook my head  
"I'm not sure I understand, madame." I responded.

Matilde crossed in front of me and leaned against the wash table where the mirror stood, now facing me directly. The light outside filled her curly hair to look like a halo.  
"My dear. If you stay as a servant here, I do not doubt that you will find yourself a husband, perhaps with a farm of his own. You will marry and have children." Matilde told me, almost as if it were a prophecy. She stared at me for awhile after that, her eyes searching my face for something. My frown deepened.  
"Is that... not what I want?" I asked. She sighed.  
"I'm not sure, child. How we live right now, it feels as though that might be our only choice..." Matilde responded, somberly. "You seem like a girl who might want... something else?" she asked, cautiously.  
"I'm sorry, Matilde... I don't-"  
"And your hands..." Matilde interrupted me, leaning forward and grabbing my hand gently once more. "Are so.. nimble... and... capable..." Matilde had said. I pulled my hand back, profoundly perplexed.  
"Madame?!" I exclaimed.

Matilde knelt beside me, holding my hands in my lap. She leaned in close enough that she could speak very quietly.  
"If I told you, there would be a way for you to live in the city... not as a servant for any one household, but with enough freedom to be let alone... to live truly as an individual, and not serving a husband or a mistress..." Matilde eyed me, cautiously, as if she were afraid that she had read me wrong the whole time.   
"What would you think?" She paused. I thought for a moment.

I enjoyed living in the Lady's house, as I had spent so long cold, afraid and hungry. I had been trying to keep up the whole time, it didn't occur to me that it might not be somewhere I should stay forever. I was young, but already growing older past when most girls would have already been married. I had never thought that my life might have been my own to live... I looked back to Matilde, the warmth in her eyes burning kindly. What I saw in her was a desire to live this life she was describing. Maybe she had missed her chance?  
"I would think... it were beyond what I deserve.." I smiled down to her. She smiled in response, pleased with my answer.  
"Victoria. My sister live in Paris. She has a number of young women who work for her. What she does is quite dangerous, however, it can grant you your freedom." She explained excitedly, clutching my hands.  
"But what is it?" I asked, as excited, in anticipation. Matilde's warm eyes curved into a smile, what she said next would once again change my life as I knew it.  
"In England, we called them 'Turtledoves'." She explained.

Young women who stole and sold possessions from homes that they worked in. Matilde's younger sister had been married to a cruel man who drank away their earnings from their stand in the market, and would grow violent. At it's worse, her younger sister had lost their second child at the hands of her husband. Late one night, Matilde met her sister's husband on his long walk back from the tavern, on a bridge that crossed the river. The man had been found dead early the next morning, as he had fallen into the river and drowned. In order to keep her newly widowed sister safe, she began to brew beer, a trade often taken by widows who no longer had their husband's land. To sustain the business, Matilde had stolen precious objects from the households she used to work in, selling them to keep the shop they had in the city. As Matilde grew older, she began to work with younger women who she would meet as a servant. The turtledoves would go between households to avoid suspicion, and in exchange, the sisters would find them consistent work and lodgings, moving them around to cover their tracks.

Before Matilde had finished explaining, I had agreed. I thought about all of the girls at the orphanage, and all of their hideous fates. I wanted to make it up to them, perhaps, by living a true life, full of risk and away from the control of men.

In the darkness of my quarters in the Palace of Justice, I shook my head. Had it been worth it, then? Those years of freedom, to find myself caught between the loss of freedom at the hands of two very different men? Had I made it up to them? When I was to be hung, or tortured and left to die, would that be the cause of warning for other young women? The bruises and marks around my wrist began to throb with an angry sadness, as the bells from Notre Dame sounded the first bell of midnight softly in the distance, and I was pulled from my thoughts once again. This was it. My last chance to truly try for each of them, and for Matilde, and for Yvette. 

I pushed myself off of the bed silently and pulled my shoes on. I lit the lantern on my wash table, turning it down low. Eagerly, I opened the door to my room and quietly shut it behind me. The hallway was pitch black with all of the doors shut tightly. A window at the far end of the hall allowed for some moonlight to silently fall onto the floor. The low light of the lantern lead me down the stairs and to the servant's kitchen. I let out a small sigh of relief to see the keys were still hanging on the nail. I grasped my hands around them and shoved them into my inner pocket before they could make a noise. Keeping the heavy iron keys pressed tightly against my ribs so they wouldn't make a noise against each other, I carefully climbed the stairs once more, the lantern held out in front of me to guide my way through the pitch black palace. I felt if I stopped moving, if I took a moment to listen, I would hear the building itself whisper about me in the dark. I felt as each window and door handle watched me pass. Finally stepping into the hallway of studies, it seemed as if I were nearly free. There, in the dark, alone and moments away from swapping the keys out in Frollo's study.

As I approached the door I reached into my apron to retrieve the key. As I pulled it out and went to put it into the lock, I froze. The large, heavy door was open, and through the gap in the doorframe, darkness peered back at me from the other side. As I froze, I listened, but I heard nothing. No breathing, no footsteps. I saw no light. I had remembered Frollo locking the door earlier in the day... was it possible he had returned? Or a servant had unlocked it? After waiting, making sure that I heard nobody inside, I pushed the door open. 

It groaned quietly and I held the lantern out in front of me, surveying the room. It sat empty, as nothing stirred. Cautiously I entered, keeping my footsteps as silent as possible. I closed the door behind me and made my way to the wooden table in the study. First I checked to see that there were no hooks or nails with keys on either side of the bookshelf. I ran my hands along the cool wood of the table sides, but felt no keys. I gently sat the lantern down on the desk and pulled out one of the drawers, sorting through a pile of letters and documents. I opened another drawer which contained much of the same. Finally, a drawer on the other side of the desk squeaked open to reveal only the large, iron key ring. My heart skipped in my chest. As I grabbed the cold iron, I felt for the first time in a very long time that my freedom was at my finger tips. I held the keys to my chest, thankful. Where the keys had sat I replaced them for the keys of the servant, gently letting the heavy keys down without a sound. I slowly closed the drawer to the desk. Instead of placing them back into my apron, I slid them in between the inner pocket, my bodice and my apron, to prevent them from being easily distinguishable. I would have to replace them on the hook until night fell, when I could hand them off to Clopin's men.

Letting out a heavy sigh, I smoothed down my apron. As I reached for the lantern to leave the study, the door clunked and slowly began to groan open. Blood rushed to my head, twisting my breath in terror. I stood, not breathing, not moving, but staring into the dark doorway. What felt like a lifetime passed by in seconds. Nothing happened. No movement, no sound. It must have been the air, or an old hinge. Still shaking, I grasped the lantern and, slower than I have ever walked, approached the open doorway. I turned to look down the empty hallway, the sliver of moon from this second floor up was brighter as it lit up the wooden floor below.

I turned to face the other end of the hall, the light from my lantern illuminating two pale, skeletal hands leaning against the wall. I gasped, recoiling and terrified, lifting the lantern to reveal Frollo's pale eyes, rage burning back at me. I stepped away from him, my feet almost tripping from underneath me. I turned to run, but his thin hand shot out into the darkness and gripped my arm. Frollo twisted it in front of me and pushed me against the wall. I fell back against my other arm pain, crying out into the darkness.  
"Of course. Monsieur Desmaria's little thief, I knew it was you." He hissed. I struggled from beneath his grip. He ripped the lantern away from me and pushed me back harder against the wall.  
"Please, Sir... I don't know what you mean" I pleaded with him, still writhing away from him. Frustrated he pushed me much harder, my head hitting the back of the stone wall. I winced, the welt on my head which had almost healed throbbing with the impact.  
"It is far too late for that, mademoiselle. I know that they sent you here." He turned my arm over and ripped back the sleeve of my undershirt, gripping the scars on my wrists firmly. 

"What have you taken?! Where is it?" The judge barked.

"Monsieur, you don't understand- Please..." In spite of myself, tears forced themselves out of my eyes and began to roll down my cheeks. Frollo held the lantern up to my face, so close it grew hot on my cheek. The shadows from the lantern flickering across the Judge's face truly made him look like a monster. I was more terrified than I had ever been.

"You wretched girl, do you know what we do to thieves in the Palace of Justice?" Frollo threatened. He pressed his knee against me, holding me in place as his free hand searched the pockets of my apron. I wept quietly, shaking under the weight of his leg. His free hand ran forcefully up the side of my bodice and he leaned towards the nape of my neck, his hot breath crossed my flesh like smoke from a fire as his hand gripped my sides in a way that I knew all too well. I used my arms to push him away slightly and he recoiled from me, horrified. In an instant, his long white hand crossed the darkness and slapped me across the face. 

"How dare you use your witchcraft on me." He spat. My face burned and I cupped my hand to it, silent sobs escaping me as I tried to keep them in as best I could. I slid down the wall, collapsing onto my legs as I held my face gently. The judge bent down.  
"After imprisonment, and torture for you to confess, and... you will confess, my child. We will brand you with a V." Frollo reached his hand out towards and and slid it onto my face, pulling my head closer to him as tears continued to roll down my face.  
"And you know what a V stands for, don't you, my young one?" His voice though moments ago shook with fury was now sickly calm, like a cloudy night sky that drowned out the moonlight. My eyes remained fixed beyond Frollo, cast onto the dark floor of the hall.   
"Voleur. Thief." Frollo spat. "Now my poor, wretched child... Before we get it out of you ourselves... What did you take for them?" He caught my eyes with the lantern and stared at me fiercely. I closed my eyes and allowed the tears to roll down them freely, shaking my head.  
"I haven't taken..." I began.

Furiously, Frollo reached forward and grabbed a handful of my hair as I winced.  
"Fine. If you want to remain so loyal to your King, I suppose I should take you to him." He smiled.  
"What?" I murmured as Frollo began to drag me away from the doorway by the handful of my hair. "No!" I cried out. I began to reach out to grab onto the railing of the stairs, the furious Judge tightening his grip on my hair.  
"Monsieur please, I beg you. This was not my choice!" I begged him.  
"You made your choice." he hissed, we crossed to the passageway that connected the two ends of the Palace. I had already guessed where he was taking me. I struggled to release myself from his grip, thinking maybe I could still escape. But those claw like hands gripped tightly to my hair, and each time I struggled he would pull it harder, causing my scalp to burn. As we drew closer to the door to the cells, I began to struggle more violently, the tears relentlessly rolling off of my chin. Frollo held me up by the hair, forcing the lantern as close to my face as he could.  
"If you keep struggling, I will execute you myself right here." He warned, his voice shaking with rage.  
"Monsieur, you don't understand..." I pleaded once more as the Judge opened the door to the dungeon and threw me down to the dirt floor. The guard, asleep at his post scrambled to stand up.  
"Sir!" the guard called, standing at attention, eyes glancing down to my sobbing form, collapsed onto the floor.

"Open the door." He commanded. The guard retrieved his key ring and, despite the tears and the pain, I glanced up to watch the guard unlock the door. The ring pressed against me deep in my bodice painfully. The door creaked open and that smell of blood and dirt wafted from the hall of cells. Frollo walked past me and I reached out to him, hoping to appeal to him one final time. Before I could grasp him, the guard picked me up by my arm and walked me down the steps and into the cell hall. Frollo lead the guard to a cell at the every end of the dimly lit hall, dirty hands grasping iron bars and toothless smiles calling out to us words I hope to never hear again. 

The guard unlocked the iron gates of the cell and I saw, in the corner, a man slumped over on a pile of straw. My heart was racing now, as I began to realize who the man was that I was looking at.

The guard threw me down onto the ground. I scrambled to my knees and placed my hand on the frame of the cell door to hold myself up. I looked up into the twisted, horrific face of the Minister of Justice.

"Monsieur Frollo..." I begged. Frollo looked past me, disgusted, to the figure in the corner.

"Your majesty, it seems one of your spies has become a bit... lost." I heard as his voice crackled with a smile.

I did not dare turn around, but reached a hand out towards the judge. He stepped back and swung the heavy iron gate, slamming the door onto my hand still resting on the frame. I cried out, loudly, and the cell hall was filled with harsh whispers and cackling. The pain shot through my entire body and I withdrew my hand quickly from the door frame. Frollo smiled to himself and slammed the gate shut, locking it behind him.

"I should leave you to get reacquainted." Frollo laughed, following his guard back out of the cell room. I held my hand out in front of me, in the dim light from the small window in the cell I saw my hand, twisted and beginning to swell, turning a dark shade of red. I tried to uncurl my fingers from their stiff position but the pain was unbearable, and I cried out once again in spite of myself, curling into a ball on the straw floor. I held myself gently, tears pooling from my eyes and settling in my hair. I opened my eyes and saw a tall, dark figure standing over me. The figure crouched down beside me and I glanced up at the familiar, searing brown eyes of Clopin. He frowned as he recognized me.

"You..." he exclaimed in the darkness.


	12. The Night, Part One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King of Fools and the dungeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii hope you're all doing okay right now. Enjoy this story about a time when people brushed their teeth with twigs and leaves and didn't wash their hands. 
> 
> CW: for this one is sexual assault (that doesn't happen between the main characters)

As the dark brown eyes from the market bore through me my breath began to quiver, the tears from my eyes ceased. I sat on my knees in the dirt and the straw of a cell in the dungeon, at the mercy of Clopin, king of fools. Feeling the weight of his gaze once again I froze, I held my breath, my heart beat slowed, and even the throbbing of my injured hand stopped for a second as he stared at me angrily through the darkness.  
"What are you doing here?" His voice clawed through the darkness. He took a step towards me and, panicked, I reached out behind me with the hand that wasn't injured and falling back onto the ground I meekly used my hand to drag myself away from him. He pursued, taking another step towards me, slowly, until I had backed myself into the corner. I pushed myself as far back against the bars of the cell as I could, unable to glance up to see my opponent advancing. I saw the outline of his shoes in the darkness as he reached me in the corner and crouched down.  
As I held my breath, silently, my face grew hot and began to burn beneath his eyes. I shuddered out a sobby breath finally, gasping for air, unable to look up past the mangled shape of my hand in my lap, through a veil of hair in the darkness. Once more, I attempted to uncurl my fingers from the tight fist they had been clenched into. The pain shot through my entire torso and I gasped loudly. Suddenly, in the darkness, a warm hand firmly grabbed my wrist. I winced and turned away from him, afraid. Clopin held my wrist up, and I felt his eyes study my hand.  
"...They... made me..." My voice cracked as I tried to hold down my sobs, it sounded barely recognizable to me.  
"Who made you what?" Clopin barked back.  
"Your... people..." I managed to respond. Clopin dropped my wrist and stood up, he was silent for a moment before he cursed in disbelief. "They sent _you?_ "

He released it and stood up silently. Clopin crossed the cell to the far corner and slid down into the matted straw and hay of the cell floor.  
"The palace dungeon is a slow way to die. I suppose it's fitting that I'll be here to watch you rot." His voice sounded from the corner, cold and defeated. I sat frozen, shuddering out noisy breaths that defied the bravery I had imagined having when faced with the Gypsy king once again. Instead, all I could do was quiver, trying to steady my breath in the dim, stale air of the dungeon.

The palace dungeon, in spite of the many small eyelets that sat at the top of the cell's tall ceilings, felt darker somehow than where I had been left deep inside the catacombs. Even in the darkness, the vast emptiness of the tower room could be sensed. Shudderings from doves and the occasional coo would echo down from the rotting beams overhead, illuminating further the dismal space of the dungeon. The catacombs, though far beneath the city, were filled with a stagnant air and warm. In the dungeon, however, the freezing air from outside howled through every gap in the hard, cold stone. As I sat against the bars of the cell, cradling my injured hand, I found I was unable to slip into the comfort of how helpless I felt and drift to sleep. My heavy eyes remained closed, but every rustle of activity in the large room sent waves of chills down my back. I tried to keep aware of Clopin's disgruntled form in the corner, each time I sensed movement I would hold my breath, in fear of him approaching once again. Occasionally I would open my eyes and carefully raise my gaze from behind my hair in order to see him myself, but all I could make out was his form. It was his gaze that I felt through the cold darkness that night, and every so often it would pull me from my thoughts, terrified that I would awake if I managed to fall asleep to his hands around my throat.

At some point I must have slipped into a sleep, as suddenly the sound of the door to the dungeon boomed open and as I opened my eyes, I noticed daylight through the small windows at the top of the cell. Clopin's head shot up and in the dim light I saw his dark eyes flash in my direction, before he scrambled to his feet and backed up against the wall. Heavy footsteps thudded down the stone hall, I held my breath knowingly until they stopped in front of our cell. The door groaned open and I tried to steady my breath. My body ached, my neck stiff and my hand throbbed with every breath I took. The cold iron of the key still inside my bodice pressed against my cold and damp skin. Stomping into the cell, one guard went toward Clopin, who stood backed against the wall. The man grabbed his arm and when Clopin resisted he hit him hard across the head, causing him to fall back. The guard produced heavy irons from and clamped them onto Clopin's thin and weathered wrists.

"You call these shackles?" I heard clopin sneer.  
"Shut up." Replied the guard, who pushed him forward, causing him to trip toward the door.

A pair of thick boots appeared in my sightline on the ground and before I could look up, rough hands in leather gloves grabbed me from under the arms and lifted me onto my feet. In one swift movement I was pinned against the hard wall, my head smacking the back. I winced beneath the hair that covered my face, and the hand of the guard pushed it back with one hand while his knee held me to the wall, pressed firmly on my thigh. My eyes fell to the dark corner of the cell, even as the guard tried to meet them with his own in the dim light. His hands then reached down to the base of my skirt and began to feel their way up my legs and onto my thighs. I closed my eyes tightly and turned my head further from him, my hand which wasn't twisted into an aching fist pushed back on his shoulder weakly as his hot breath crossed the skin of my neck, his mouth closing around it, tongue sliding back and forth. He lowered his knee and pressed his body against me, his hands wrapping themselves around my thighs and lower back.

"Come on." The guard, holding the chains of Clopin boomed from the doorway. The guard's hand opened my thighs wider and pressed himself further towards me in response, his mouth moving towards the edge of my dress. "I said come on." The guard yelled from the door once more. The man on top of me pulled away and turned to him.  
"This one is mine." He spat. The other guard appeared behind him and firmly ripped his shoulder back, but the guard remained on top of me, pinning me to the cold wall. The other guard pulled him back harder.  
"Claude Frollo is waiting. First we take the gypsy, then this one." He yanked on the chain holding Clopin's irons, causing him to lurch forward. I felt the heat of Clopin's eyes. They burned through the pressure radiating from the man's loins and the body trapping me to the wall. I glanced up quickly to catch the intense stare from Clopin, over the shoulder of the guard. The guard caught our look and my eyes darted back to the corner. He smirked and I felt his hands unsnake themselves from my thighs. As my skirt fell back below my knees and the man backed away, my sore and tired legs gave out from beneath me and I sunk back onto the floor. The man let out a frustrated grunt and assisted in escorting Clopin outside of the cell. I felt the guard's eyes on me one last time as I heard the heavy door lock, before the sounds of all three men disappeared down the hallway.

I held my breath until the heavy door to the cell row shut behind them, and let it out in one long, heavy exhale that shook as I did. My knees pushed my arms up and my icy fingers slid into my hair- now a tangled nest of dirt and sweat. Time continued to crawl by- measured in the passing of unequal seconds signaled by a loud drip of water from the small window in the wall above me into the damp darkness. The dim amount of light from the window had become somehow even dimmer, until as hours passed the cell was almost pitch black, save for the burning torch somewhere down the long hallway. 

Every part of my body was aching heavily from my frozen position on the floor, but I couldn't move, or look beyond the veil of matted hair that obscured my gaze, staring just in front of me to the floor below. Suddenly the door to the hallway slammed open and I could hear the voices of the guards once again. I lifted my head, my heart began to beat so intensely as my breath quickened it pushed the heavy iron key against my rib producing a sharp pain. 

The phantom hands of the guard from earlier lingered on my thighs and sent a cold chill up my spine. If they were to return the key could easily be found. The footsteps in the hallway were rapidly approaching and I frantically dug my hand into the front of my bodice and struggled to pull the key out. My shaking hands shot towards my boot, awkwardly shoving the key down the side as the door to the cell swung open. I covered the motion by pushing myself up from the ground with the same hand, my weak arms feeling for the support of the damp wall behind me to push myself to be standing. 

As I looked up I immediately saw Clopin's slender frame, held on either arm by each guard, his head hung down as his torso dropped to the floor, dragging his legs behind him. He seemed unresponsive as they used his arms to throw him into the corner. My eyes searched the darkness for movement but he lay slumped in a pile just as they had thrown him I gasped quietly and went to take a step towards him. If he had been killed, his men would not return for him and I would be left to die. Before I could take another step the guard from before wrapped his arm around my torso and pushed me back towards the wall. I reached out to Clopin but the guard grabbed my arm and pinned it to my side by his hand.

"Now where were we?" He sneered, his breath reeking of ale. I stared back at him, horrified, and as anger took ahold of me for a second I watched my heavy arm lift and cross his face in a hard slap. The second guard, standing by the door, snickered in the darkness and the guard in front of me smiled horribly. He gathered up both of my arms and lifted them above my head, slamming them onto the brick of the wall. I let out a heavy breath as my wrists, and my bruised and swollen hand began to throb under his grip.  
"I'll show you what we do to Gypsy spies, and English whores in here." He croaked as I felt his gloves begin to undo the laces on my bodice. I glanced towards Clopin for a sign of life, if not help, but he lay still and fear gripped my stomach once again. Once my bodice lay open, the cold leather of his glove began to slither once again up the front of my skirt and towards my chest, as his hot breath and tongue danced around my neck and shoulders. I closed my eyes and stared into the eternal darkness behind my eyelids, waiting for it to be over. The guard's hand slid out from under my skirts and he undid his belt, still holding my hands up away from me. Just as he had loosened his waist a large, dark shadow fell over the cell from the torch the guard held by the door.

"Gentlemen." A strong and cold voice rang from the door. We all looked towards it, and the unmistakable silhouette of Claude Frollo slid into the cell.

"Sir!" The guard ontop of me exclaimed in surprise, his knees still pressed into my legs and the grip on my arms loosening slightly.  
"What are you doing?" Frollo passed the shocked guard by the door and appeared at the side of the guard ontop of me. I glanced once more to Clopin's figure in the darkness, but the piercing stare of the judge at the undone bodice hanging off my shoulder returned to meet his empty grey eyes. Pain shot through my hand, almost as if the judge had been thinking about when he crushed it beneath the bars of the door just one night before. Had it only been one night?

"I was just..." The guard mumbled, and Frollo glanced towards the guard's undone pants. Frollo stared hatefully into my eyes once more, before a sickly smile crossed his face and he turned to the guard.  
"Gentlemen... Please, assure me that the pestilent witchery of this beast has not infected you?" The feeling that arose from him when he spoke, as though his words were heavy smoke, depriving the air around me caused my chest to feel heavy once more. The guard looked up into my eyes and released my arms fearfully, taking a small step away from me.  
"No, sir, we were-"  
"Good." Frollo interrupted. I glanced up to meet his eyes and the back of his boney hand crossed my face forcefully. Hot tears were swelling up to meet the heat of impact from his strike, but I kept my head turned and low to not show them. "Don't turn those eyes on me, madame. We musn't let such earthly filth possess us, for the sake of our heavenly souls." I felt the guard glance back at me, but I kept my head turned away.  
"Y-Yes, sir." The guard muttered back, stupidly. I heard him tighten his belt back up and as he reached for my arm, Frollo gripped his tightly, stopping him.  
"Not tonight. I'm to retire for the evening. We'll start with this one in the morning." He spat.  
"Yes, sir." Dejected, the guard responded and turned to leave the cell. I let out a cold and nearly silent sigh, but the judge turned to me, as if he had heard it.

"If I were you, I would pray to god that your king makes it through the night." His words bit through the cold air of the cell. Once he had crossed through the iron door and stood on the other side, he spoke again. "Not that he would be listening." The heavy clunk of the key turning from the other side accented his words and the sharp sound of his feet on the stone echoed back down the hallway.


	13. The Night, Part Two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A life for a life.

Once again I stood frozen against the wall until the dimmest of the torch lights passed through the coldest, blackest stone of the dungeon. A cold draft from the eyelet above crossed my partially exposed chest and every deep bone in my body shook heavily. My violently shaking hands found their way unsteadily to the front of my bodice and I hastily tried to cover it up, trapping some of the menacing air in my clothes. Frollo's presence, and the presence of the guards hung in the darkness like so much of the violence and blood that had occurred in the cell before me. As I finished tying up my bodice, the words of the judge rang in my ears like the toll of a funeral bell.  
"I would pray to god that he makes it through the night..." I inhaled sharply and the cold hit my lungs, causing me to shudder more. I barely heard my own voice through the hopeless grip of the cell.

"Monseiur?... Hello?" I called out to him and drew my breath back again, holding it silent. 

The dark shape on the floor where the guards had dropped him lay motionless. Panic crept up my spine. I hesitated for a moment before cautiously walking towards him, my hands outstretched slightly as I tried to safely cross the dim, dark, space. As I neared his slumped form I crouched down, close enough to hear a deep and steady breath. Very delicately I reached my hand out towards the faint outline of his face I could make out. I gently placed my hand on his forehead and noticed my shuddering had stopped. A cold sweat covered his face, yet beneath it, a comforting warmth. My hand lingered for a moment as I considered how long it had been since I had touched someone, or been touched, in a kind way. A dull ache filled my heart as distant memories of closeness passed through my mind. As soon as the warmth began to radiate through my frozen fingers, my other hand throbbed in pain, bringing me back to reality. I withdrew my touch to hold the hand and winced. Clopin did not stir and I was beginning to feel fear for the days to come. I let out a loud sigh and lay down a distance away from Clopin, his knee just above my head, watching him carefully as I did so. Once I lay down and heard that his breath had not wavered in its heavy pattern, I relaxed slightly and immediately fell to sleep.

Suddenly I found myself back in my room in the Palace of Justice servants quarters. I remember glancing down at my hands and finding they were covered in blood. Panicking, I ran to the door of my room and threw it open. The hallway of the quarters were pitch black, and as I tried to feel my way through them I smeared the blood across the walls, stumbling toward the stairs. When I turned towards a window at the top of the stairs, a tall, thin silhouette of a man created a heavy shadow. I couldn't see his face but I recognized him as Claude Frollo. Two thin arms emerged from the darkness and grabbed my wrists, pulling me into a constrained grip. I struggled to be free but couldn't escape from the feeling of his nails digging into me. When I tore free I looked down and noticed my clothes had been ripped off, I turned to run once again but found I could not move. His voice sounded from the darkness of the hall.  
"These are for you. Take me to him." I looked down and two large necklaces, heavy chains with wooden crosses covered in spikes weighed around my neck. I ran down the stairs and through the front doors of the palace, which opened onto the market in front of Notre Dame. The day was dim, and I found myself surrounded by people. I ran through them, afraid they would notice me naked and covered in blood, but nobody turned from their paths, and I couldn't meet anyone's eyes. I stumbled and fell to the hard cobblestone ground. A pair of boots appeared in front of me, and as I carefully stood up, I came face to face with Clopin, dressed as he was that day in the market, with a thick black hood and black mask. Only the near pitch black of his dark brown eyes, silhouetted by the white that surrounded them were visible. They shook me as they had the day I first saw them. He glanced down at the heavy necklaces that had been placed upon me by Frollo, then glanced back up to meet my eyes again.  
" _You_!" He whispered sharply. I fumbled to take the necklaces off.  
"Monseiur...I didn't mean..." but when I looked back, his eyes were fixed behind me. Suddenly the entire market scene had disappeared. When I turned to see what he was looking at, I was met with a face of terror. Frollo stood directly behind me, eyes ablaze with fury, a twisted, evil smile across his face. The image was so vivid and so terrifying, I could feel my heart stop even in my dream. But it was a very real sensation that jerked me awake, freeing me from my nightmare.

As I slowly came to, my heart jumped again at the sight of two large, dark figures standing in my cell. One held a torch, and the other held Clopin draped over his arms. I gasped and sat up, pushing myself away from them quickly. Their dark, panicked eyes widened as I did so. As the man with the torch turned, I saw a glimpse of a face and recognized him as the gypsy guards from the catacombs, the ones who had brought me into the court to be delivered my sentence. Relief, fear, and excitement flooded my heart and I reached into my boot quickly producing the key I had stolen from Frollo. I held it up to them, proudly. 

My heart began to sink as they didn't react in the slightest. One turned to the other and spoke in a language I did not recognize, and the man holding Clopin turned toward the open cell door and began to walk towards it. The man with the torch turned to follow him. Confused, I lunged forward and grabbed the leg of his pant.

"PLEASE!" I cried. "I did what you asked me to do, please don't leave me here!" My breath panicked and tears freely flowed down my face.  
"You _failed_ us, girl! This is where you came and this is where you will die." The man spat back at me. I gripped tighter.  
"It wasn't my fault! I still got the key! Please, I beg you." I sobbed. From the open cell door there was rustling deep in the cell block. The man with the torch looked towards it, startled, and back at me fiercely. "Shut up!" He scolded, and an impact from the back of his gloved hand filled my vision with darkness for a moment as I fell towards the wall. I began to lose consciousness, but in the haze of the blow, I heard a familiar voice.  
"You idiots. She knows too much."  
"But--" a voice boomed back  
"I said do it!" 

In an instant, the damp cell and the group of figures fell to darkness all around me.


	14. Le Retour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A life in chains is still a life."

I opened my eyes similar to the way they had opened for many days throughout the past few weeks. Had it been weeks? It felt like months, since that day, in the market. My eyelids were heavy, swollen from exhaustion. I pushed them open slowly, until the world came into focus. In a sense, I had gotten used to waking up confused, head pounding, thirsty, and in pain. I placed the hand that had not been injured to my side, and felt the comfort of an animal fur underneath me. I realized I was not cold, and instead covered in a quilt. As I began to look around, I found that I was in a tent made from burlap. Carefully I sat up and blood flowed to my head, which began to throb. I rubbed my hands over my face, my sore hand stinging as I attempted to uncurl my fingers. It was bright enough to look down and see my surroundings, and my eyes were not used to it. I winced when I saw my hand for the first time since it had been slammed between the iron bars of the dungeon. It was all colors of black, blue, red, purple and green. Four out of five of my fingers were swollen and gnarled in a painful looking pose. Attempting to stretch them, I realized I could only lift them a little bit before pain would shoot up my arm fiercely. I groaned. I looked to the quilt below me. It was a thin layer of many different richly colored fabrics sewn together. Pieces of drab color linen spotted the otherwise bright quilt. The dark brown fur beneath me sat upon a thick layer of straw. My sense of smell began to return to me, and the sweet smell of smoke, like incense and burning leaves filled the air of the tent. Spices soon followed, and I began to hear warm sounding voices in the distant.

They must have taken me with them, back to the gypsy court. A warm light filled me inside as I realized that I would finally be free to return to my life. I had been dreaming about it since this had all begun, and had decided that I would leave Paris and return to England one way or another to escape Jaques Desmarias, Frollo, and the strange gypsy court. The life that Matilde had warned me of so many years ago, the life with the children and the farm, had become a fantasy of an escape. I thought of it often, and mourned the loss of my future by having come here when I did. I rubbed my head again, overwhelmed with the new found feeling of relief and joy, safety and comfort. I pulled back the quilt that lay on top of me, to find a surprise that once again shattered the warm feelings I had finally begun to experience.

Tightly locked to my ankle was a shackle, with a thick iron chain running off of the end. I pulled my knees up to my chest, inspecting the device. I yanked on the chain and my eyes followed it out the flap of the tent, something stiff on the other end responded to the yank and the chain dropped still. I scrambled to my feet and pushed the tent flap out of the way. My tent was cast aside from a cluster of other tents, I could see the backs of them. I looked around and realized that this one was placed in a far corner of the rather large room I had been sent to trial in. The tents got closer together and were more numerous as they reached what seemed to be a square in the middle, where the gallows and the platform had been. I looked around until I found the other end of the chain. A few yards away from me, but not far enough so I could leave the immediate radius of the tent and venture into the neighborhoods of tents ahead of me, an large iron spike was driven high up on a stone wall, holding the chain in place. I bent down and picked the chain up again and in disbelief shook it up and down to ensure the chain was indeed attached to the wall. The heavy iron made a cackling sound against the bricks that made my blood turn to fire. I grunted as I started to yank on it, attempting to pull it down from the nail. My grunts and movements became more frantic as I noticed the uselessness of the task. A small child poked their head from around the side of a tent in front of me and stared, wide eyed. I caught the child's glance and glared back until they retreated. I then dropped the chain, panting heavily. A voice sounded from the back wall where my tent was located.

"I see you've come to join us." The voice was slick and familiar. I turned toward it, to find the man who had come to me in the Palace of Justice, the one who had brought me to the middle of the court and offered me my freedom in exchange for retrieving his King. His eyes were hard to read, but a sense of bemusement was on his face. Seeing him again was crushing, and my patience had all but left me long ago.  
"You promised me my life." My own voice cracked in a defeated response. The man was leaning against the wall and stood straight as he began walking towards me.  
"A life in chains is still a life my young friend. Is it not?"  
"I would think that someone like you would know the difference." I spat back, turning to follow him as he circled in front of me. Approaching me, the man stepped over the thick chain that trailed from my ankle. As we were face to face, he gently pushed my hair behind my ear and took my bruised hand in his, he flipped it over, inspecting it. The man was taller than Clopin, with broader shoulders and a stronger chin. His cheeks jutted out at handsome angles that turned into valleys sunken into his face. His eyes, unlike Clopin's, were bright green and light brown spirals that ignited into sparks as thoughts crossed his mind. This had been the clearest I had seen him, and his smooth demeanour took me back a bit.

"We all wear our chains my dear... and besides, I would think a vagrant such as yourself would know better than to trust a gypsy." As he announced his title he squeezed my hand just enough that I gasped lightly. I tried to pull it away, but he grasped my arm and pulled me closer to him.  
"I would have much preferred that we left you there to rot. Our king insists that you knew too much, that you would have crumbled under torture." To my surprise he took my bruised hand and very gently pushed my fingertips straight with his, causing them to shake, threatening to collapse under the motion, but instead of pain, warmth radiated from their tips and he flipped our hands together so that mine sat on top of his, stretched out. His warm breath whispered across my ear, and caused me to close my heavy eyes.  
"You should have left me to die. I can not stand to be held prisoner any longer." I responded, my voice low to match his. He dropped my arm to my side and looked up into my eyes, a smothering smoke of amusement dancing in his.  
"There is still time." He smiled, pulling away from me and turning to walk away. I watched him walk back towards the crowded tents and glanced down at my hand. It remained gnarled and bruised, but mysteriously my fingers were stretched beyond what they had been before, painlessly. I turned away from the many rows of tents whose only view I had was of their empty backs, returning to my own before following the snake of a chain back inside.

The tent was empty, save for the bedding, the blanket and a small burnt pit on the other side where presumably a fire had once been. Ashes and embers remained, it seemed as though a fire had not been lit for a long time. My bodice was gone, leaving behind only the long linen under shirt that hung to my frame. My shoes and stockings were placed to the side of my bed, and I was curiously barefoot on the dirt ground. I looked over my feet, they were bruised and red, and the icy blue of my blood shone through my pale, nearly translucent flesh. I was unsure of what to do. I did not feel as though I could cry for myself any longer. I was not surrendered to death, nor was I trying to figure out a way to survive, as I had done in the past. I sat down on the soft fur of the straw bed and put my legs out in front of me. I gripped the iron of the shackle around my ankle. It was cold, and heavy, and the texture of it had already begun to scrape away at my flesh. Placing my head back in my hands I returned my gaze to the ground in front of me, and watched as darkness filled the room, torches having been moved to the center of the town and fires had been put out, distant shadows danced across it. As it grew dark the tents further away grew loud with music, the smell of cooked meats filled the air as celebration rang through the people. I had not eaten in days, but my stomach had stopped feeling hunger, now fed by the sense of dread found in surrender to a life of imprisonment.

At one point during the festivities, the music stopped and all voices but one grew quiet. I couldn't make out the voice that was still speaking, but I suspected it to be the voice of Clopin. I imagined he was detailing his brave escape, in spite of the English prisoner's inability to help. I wondered if he had told his people that I remained their prisoner. The gypsy king only spoke for awhile, until the crowd erupted into cheers and applause and the music began to play again. Unable to sleep, or go anywhere. I lay on my bed in the same position for hours, the quilt covering me a bit, all too aware of the heavy iron around my ankle. The music continued long into the night and I closed my eyes, reviewing all that had happened so far. The day in the market, Jacques Desmarias, the catacombs, the Palace of Justice, the dungeon. All that had happened felt so far outside of me, and I felt as if at any moment I would wake up in my room, in my old bed, ready for a day's work once again. The order of events tortured me worse than any of the physical pain, than being left to die had felt. I kicked myself for having gone to the market, for having left England. Neither the hunger or the cold cut as deeply as the regret that I felt. The music began to die down, and the crowd of voices dissipated back to their tents. I lay awake, almost in a trance, reviewing everything over and over again.

A sound of soft footsteps soon broke my daze. My eyes opened slowly and I turned to the flap of my tent. A shadow stood outside, illuminated by a torch. A familiar silhouette stood on the other side of the flap, complete with a wide brimmed hat. I frowned, was it the man from earlier? Come to taunt me once more? The figure stood at the flap, unmoving.

"Hello?" I called out softly.

I pushed myself to my feet and approached the flap. I stood a hair away from it, but neither of us moved or said anything. I carefully moved the flap to one side. I recognized the figure only from the feeling that the eyes, shadowed by the torch and the brim of the hat, stirred in me. Under his arm he held firewood and some kindling and in his other hand a plate with some scraps of food. After a moment where neither of us spoke, he pushed the plate of food towards me. I took it from him, and he dropped the firewood and kindling to the floor. When he stood back up, he held the torch out in front of him for a moment and I caught a glimpse of the shadow of his eyes look towards my feet.

Awkwardly, I curled my toes under, feeling hot from shame. He looked back up at me and I felt his eyes stare into mine, a flash darting across them of something I couldn't grasp. For a moment there was no sound but the crackle of the flame he held in his hand as it licked the dark air. Then, cautiously he stretched the torch out to me as well. I grabbed it from him and glanced up at it for a moment, when I looked back towards him he had turned away, giving me a brief second to see the features of his face, and the many bruises and welts that covered it from his time in the Palace of Justice. Turning away from the flap to the tent I looked down at the plate of food. I wanted to eat so badly, but a feeling overwhelmed the pit of my stomach and was frustrating me. Why was I not back in the catacombs? Why had they moved me to where the gypsy people lived? I had been their prisoner once, and they had made it clear that they did not care if I lived or died. I could not reconcile the two, and it made me uncomfortable. I set the plate down on the floor and grabbed the pile of kindling and logs. As I moved throughout the tent, the snaking of the chain around my ankle made an unpleasant sound as it followed me. I set the kindling up to form what would be a fire the next day, and placed the torch in a holder which sat just outside of the tent. I pulled the quilt up over my body and lay on the bed for awhile longer, confused and contemplating my fate.

I knew that it was the morning by the many sounds of people moving around outside. I had awoken to notice that the plate of food I had set down was gone. Standing up, I remembered the shackle around my ankle, something I had thought maybe I dreamed away. I went outside my tent to find the area where my tent stood empty from people once again. Grabbing the torch, I went inside to light the fire I had set up last night. Watching the fire slowly start gave me a small feeling of comfort, and I sat beside it on the ground, watching it grow and feeding it. My stomach growled, hungry from the past few days of not eating, and I felt every sore part of my bone ache. I grabbed the quilt and wrapped it around me. The air in the catacombs was warm and stale, but it felt as though the chill from the dungeon had stayed with me, my feet were not used to walking . I shivered slightly before the fire reached a steady roar. Hours passed by slowly. Clopin had given me three logs and some kindling, I sat with each as they burned through, barely moving from my spot on the ground. 

As the embers simmered, I found that through exhaustion and hunger I couldn't keep a thought in my mind, each fizzled out like an ember that would fall from the log and turn to ash at my feet. Each time an ember would land on my knee, or my hand or foot, I would wake up a little for a moment and let out a sigh of relief, as I had begun to feel as though I had been turned to stone. I heard the changing sounds of the world outside, the bustling of what I believed to be the afternoon died down and gave way to evening. The final log of the three I had been given was halfway burned through, and the smell of cooking rose in the air. Despite my hunger, I did not stir inside at the smell of food, but rather waited for another ember to jump from the log to remind myself I was still in the tent, still, even possibly, on the earth itself.

As the light died down from the last wood in the fire, I noticed that the torch outside of my tent had also gone out. Turning my head towards the door to the tent, I noticed the darkness in the great hall. It felt strange to move at all, each of my bones felt as though they creaked as I pulled myself onto the animal fur and slowly covered myself in the quilt. I lay in the darkness, listening to the faint sounds of lovers in their tents or caravans, and children being put to bed. My heavy eyes closed and another day slipped away into darkness once again.

I was awoken to a sharp tug on the chain attached to my ankle. When I opened my eyes slowly and confused, a harder tug on the chain ripped my leg painfully from beneath the quilt. I winced as the cold metal dug into my flesh. It must have been very early in the morning, as the world outside of my tent was silent. Shadows from a torch outside filled the burlap walls and I draped the quilt around my shoulders and stood up, my tired limbs carrying me unsteadily to the door in the darkness. A figure stood a few yards in front of me holding a torch, with something else in its hands. A wide brimmed hat hid their face, but I knew who it was, and who it was not. I groaned.

"You again." I said to the man who had visited me the day before, who had given me my sentence some days ago, and visited me in the Palace of Justice. My voice was hoarse, and as I parted my lips to speak, the jagged, chapped skin from my thirsty lips stung as they were ripped apart. The man held out a hand and I noticed it gripped a plate of food. I stared at it in the dim torch light.

"Am I expected to eat that?" I asked him after a pause of silence.  
"You can do as you like, but I can presume you're quite hungry." he responded. I stood silent again for awhile. "Very well." He responded, turning to walk away. I bent down and picked up the heavy chain, a rage clouding my vision as I walked towards him quickly.

"You and your people left me to die, twice now." I raised my voice as I approached him and he turned on his heel to face me. I got as close to him as I could, the chain in the wall straining to provide enough slack for us to be face to face. Amusement danced across his face once again, fuelling my anger. "Why am I not in your dungeon?! cWhy have you brought me here instead?!" I shouted louder, exasperated. The look of amusement left his face as I shouted.

"Be quiet!" He whispered, but I continued  
"Do you intend to poison me? Or starve me? OR do you think that I will go mad here!?" My voice cracked and tears began to filled my eyes. As I shouted my last words the man threw the torch and the plate of food to the ground beside him. He grabbed both of my arms firmly, and the chain dropped out of my hand in surprise.  
"I said be quiet!" He shouted. I sobbed quietly as his hands gripped me. A soft voice sounded quietly in the darkness.  
"Papa?" came the small voice of a child. He turned behind him and responded in their language which sounded unlike any I had heard before. I looked over his shoulder and saw a child standing in the distance by a tent. An arm shot out of the tent and grasped their hand, but the child stood still, watching us from the mouth of the tent. An arm emerged, followed by a slender, young looking woman. She wrapped her arm around the child, but when she locked eyes with me she froze, and frowned into the darkness. The man remained frozen as well, holding me in place. The woman looked between the two of us, frowning, before ushering her child back inside, giving the man who held me one last glance, daggers shooting from her eyes.

The man turned back to me, shaking with rage.  
"You can starve, for all I care. Ungrateful witch." He let go of my arms and went to turn away. Something in me then snapped, and fell deep inside to an unreachable place.  
"Please. Some water, please." I cried quietly after him. He stopped, stiffly and he rolled his eyes to the sky dramatically. He reached to his side and produced a pouch made from the skin of an animal, filled with water. He dropped it to my feet and watched as I scrambled to pick it up. I removed the lid with my teeth and spat it on the ground, sucking the liquid from it hastily. The man retrieved the lid and stood watching me drink the entire contents of the hide pouch, now shaking as water flooded through my body for the first time in days. The man was glancing over his shoulder anxiously and reached his hand out to me. I handed it back to him with one shaking hand, the other one held the quilt around my shoulders. As I looked into his eyes for a brief second, a moment of pity filled his eyes. The pity radiated through me and I turned away as he bent down to pick up the torch, burning on the ground. He held it out to me and I reached a hand out to grasp it, as I felt his hand on the torch I held onto it firmly, he struggled to slid his away but I locked eyes with him.  
"Just let me go, please. You will never see me again, I promise." My voice was firm but low. The look of pity pooled from his eyes and hung over me like a thick fog. He hesitated for a second, and I sensed a pull of conflict within him.  
"Danior!" A woman's voice called from the tent where the child and young woman had returned to. The man turned around, quickly pulling his hand from under mine, almost causing me to drop the torch once again. He glanced at me once more before turning to walk towards the tent where the voice had come from. I stood in the darkness holding the torch, shaking until I saw the dim lantern go out in his.


	15. Romani

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wolf and the flock.

Only a few more hours into the morning brought another unpleasant encounter in my new situation as I awoke to the sound of a man and a woman yelling just outside of my tent. I was unsure if the argument had anything to do with me, as they were fighting in the language of the Gypsy people which I could not speak a word of. I turned onto my side and tried to ignore it quietly. Suddenly the woman's yelling became significantly more shrill, and louder. The chain around my ankle jerked violently to one side as if it had been kicked or pulled. I shot up in bed, my heart beating so hard I could feel it in my ears. I paused a moment before scrambling to my feet, pulling the quilt around my shoulders once more.

As quietly as I could I approached the flap of the door and peered through a gap in the tied up burlap. The man from last night and the woman who had emerged from the tent and called him back in stood on either side of the chain, which ran between them and connected to my ankle on the other side of the thin piece of burlap. I followed the chain with my eyes until it stopped at a third pair of feet; the feet of the small child who had emerged from the tent as well last night. The child's dark brown eyes met mine and I panicked for a moment, as the woman glanced down at the child and followed their gaze to the gap in the fabric where I stood watching them. I took as deep of a breath as I could and parted the opening to the tent, stepping into the middle of the tense scene. As I did so my eyes fell onto a small group of people who stood watching the couple from the other side of the line of tents. 

The woman and the man both stopped arguing as I emerged for a second. Unsure of where to look, or what to do, and feeling incredibly uncomfortable, I met their eyes for less than a heart's beat before glancing down towards their feet. I could feel the tension between them, and the daggers shooting from the eyes of the young woman in my direction as she spoke to the man. The man seemed exasperated, and the woman, frustrated. I tried to ignore the whispers and gazes of onlookers while I stood quietly in front of them for a few moments. The child had been holding onto the woman's hand and dropped it gently before taking a curious step towards me, the eyes of the child and their awkward and inquisitive step caused the corners of my mouth to move into a very minimal smile for the first time in what felt like forever. The woman quickly grabbed onto her child and bent down, holding it closely. Her eyes crossed me like cold steel before standing up and turning to the man

"Why would you allow to bring her here?" The woman suddenly said sternly in English. I looked up quickly, surprised, but met only the eyes of the man, who tried to maintain a look of strength and perseverance. "This woman who is not one of us, she has seen our son."  
"And she is trapped here, she cannot leave." The man responded, kicking the chain on the ground for effect. It caused the shackle to shake, scratching into my skin as it did so. My heart sunk into my stomach as he said this, not knowing or not if it were true, but being unsure of where my fate should lay made me feel uncertain and upset.

"She's kept here, alive!" The woman shouted, pointing at me. "She is the wolf and yet you keep her near to us and you risk our son for her life." The woman continued to stab her finger in my direction.  
"She knows nothing!" The man shouted in return. "What would you have me do? Defy the King of our people?"  
"My king would have never made this choice!" The woman's voice grew louder. My face, once hot, now ran cold as many pairs of eyes fell on me like shadows in the night.

"Rhoda!" The man threw his head back in frustration and responded with a few words in their language once again. The woman furrowed her dark eyebrows before standing up and interrupting him, yelling. She shot one fierce look at me before shouting

"If you won't then I'll do it myself!"

The woman lunged forward and pulled a long knife from the man's waist. The crowd of people watching gasped for a moment and then cheered and she turned towards me. The man, stunned for a second, grabbed her arm right as she tried to walk towards me. The furious woman tried to fling it off and he attempted to keep her arms by her side. People in the crowd whistled as they struggled. The child with the woman fell to the ground while they fumbled with each other, trying not to drop the knife. The child held its hands up and began to whine as they did so. The scene had drawn some more spectators and watching the two physically wrestle had inspired some stifled laughter. I felt sick to my stomach, like a spectacle. Before today I was cast aside and left in the corner of the court and was perfectly fine with it, but today I felt exposed and uncomfortable. Someone wanted to kill me and I was trapped in this tent, chained to a wall. My mind was filled with tension and rapid thoughts filled it, should I intervene? Should I fight this woman? I watched as her sharp elbow collided with the mans stomach, winding him. He held his stomach and coughed and the woman and the knife fell to the ground. She swiftly picked it up and lept to her feet. I winced and held my arms up to defend myself when suddenly a voice cracked through the crowd, one that was all to familiar.

"You foolish people." The voice sounded. The woman's eyes widened and she froze in place, turning around to where the voice had come from. Some people moved aside and a small, old woman pushed through them. I recognized her immediately as Jaelle, the gypsy woman I had sold stolen goods to, and who had helped me leave the court to retrieve Clopin.

"You're going to tear each other apart over what?!" She walked slowly and mindfully, a small limp accompanying her as she walked toward us. I stood in disbelief for a moment. The woman turned back to me with a furious glance. The man was still doubled over coughing from the blow, as Jaelle approached he attempted to straighten himself up.

"This girl will bring us no harm." Jaelle stood just in front of me and to my side, speaking to the crowd as much as she was to the woman and man in front of her.  
"How would we believe this? Judge Frollo himself has seen her, she's a thief and a fugitive!" She jabbed the knife in my direction as she spoke.  
"Some things we know, you foolish girl." Jaelle responded, the two women staring into each other's eyes intensely. After a moment Jaelle looked to the man and said "Danoir, please take your young wife away from our prisoner." The man, having just caught his breath, cautiously approached the woman. She held her hand up to him to stop, still staring at Jaelle fiercely. 

The woman bent down quickly and picked up her child who had moved beside her leg and had been staring up at me for some time. She shot a dangerous look to Jaelle before turning to me.  
"Parni beng." She cursed at me, spitting onto the ground before my feet. I glanced down as it bubbled in the dirt. When I looked back up, most of the crowd had dispersed and the woman walked quickly ahead of the man, who looked back at us woefully.

"Making friends!" Jaelle smiled at me pleasantly. I sighed.  
"What did she say to me?"  
"Bright and colorless devil. Parni is our word for what you'd say is 'white'." Jaelle said dryly, turning to the tent.  
"Who are they?" I asked her, watching the couple's backs grow smaller in the distance. Jaelle sighed gently and turned back to me.  
"Danoir is Clopin's nephew. He is the one 'born with teeth', as you may have noticed. He has been trying to be in charge since Clopin has been... not with us." I felt a she gave me a sideways glance. "Rhoda is his young wife. It may not surprise you that many of us are not happy with your arrival." She glanced down to my shackled ankle and followed it with her eyes up to the wall. She chuckled softly. "So... What happened?"

Jaelle retrieved some supplies from her home- a large wooden covered wagon painted deep maroon and returned to my tent with a pitcher of water, a washing bowl, cloth bandages and some supplies she had assured me would help with my hand.

She instructed me to wash my face and hands in the wash bowl, handing me her linen apron to dry my face. Jaelle scrunched her face up when I pulled my face away from her apron to find dark grey smudges where my face and hands had wiped clean. From a pouch she produced green leaves, which she tore up into water to create a paste. As she sat patiently beside me, carefully studying my hand I began 'to tell her all that had happened to me since that day in the court. She placed the paste around the heavy bruises that covered my fingers and the back of my hand, and placed a thin piece of wood on the back of it, carefully bandaging around my fingers.

I told her about the palace of justice, the keys, my encounters with Frollo. Jaelle remained focused intently on my hand, it was hard to tell if she had been listening. However, when I began to speak about my time in the cells of the dungeon with Clopin, I noticed her glance shift to my face slyly, yet her expression did not change. When I got to the end, in which I partially remember a voice instructing the other gypsies to bring me with them, she sighed so softly, almost so that I could barely hear it, as if she were concerned. I finished on this note and sat looking at her, but her eyes had wandered to the ground beneath her and she appeared lost in thought.  
"Jaelle?" I finally said hesitantly. She looked up, surprised.  
"That's quite the story!" Jaelle exclaimed, awkwardly. I frowned at her response.  
"Why did they bring me here? What is going to happen to me here? What even is this place?" I asked her. She took a big breath and brought herself to her feet, gathering her supplies back up into the washing bowl.  
"My dear, I wish I knew. That is what we are all wondering now. When I heard about the dungeon, I knew in my heart that it was the end for you. Until this morning, I thought you were still there. We are all confused, many of us outraged, with Clopin's decision. We're not the kind who would welcome an outsider."  
I stood up as she said this.  
"If the gypsy people don't want me here, why not let me go?!" I said angrily. Jaelle chuckled, to my surprise.  
"Gypsy? Who taught you that ridiculous word?" She laughed. I frowned.  
"Jaelle, I don't-"  
"Don't let anyone down here hear that one! Romani are not from Egypt- we have crossed countries of deserts and seen cities fall. We'll be here to see this whole miserable place burn to the ground." I watched her closely as she spoke, light beaming from her face, the darkness of her eyes engulfed in embers that were coming from within. The depth reminded me of how Clopin's eyes had looked that day, and I lost myself in hers as I have his.

She smiled once more, knowingly, before tossing a bundle of the herbs she had put on my hand towards me. "Keep an eye on that shackle, the skin is beginning to split. That should help if it does." She said as she turned to exit the tent. Stunned, I looked down at my hand, which had caught the bundle of thick herbs. I turned them over in my hand, also admiring how clean it had become since washing it. The clean cloth bandages on my hand put a gentle amount of pressure onto my injury, but it felt comfortable to have the hand held sturdy once more. I glanced up and watched as her figure disappeared into the twilight that had filled the great hall.

Hours passed as I sat in darkness, going over the words that Jaelle had left for me. I had never heard the term Romani before, and the curious response to the word 'gypsy' had surprised me. The origins had not crossed my mind, as I believed that was what they were called, and what they had named themselves. A soft sound of footsteps approaching, accompanied by torch light caused me to sit up and go to the front of the tent. A few yards away from me, Danoir stood in the darkness with his torch. He dropped a few logs and kindling where he stood, before cautiously crouching to place a plate and his container of water. Behind him, I could make out the figure of Rhoda, the woman from this morning, watching from the dim light of their tent. Without saying a word he turned and began walking slowly back toward his tent.


	16. The Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> White devil

My days in the court of miracles- a name for the large room where the Romani people of Paris lived that connected the catacombs underneath Paris, as I had learned from Jaelle- consisted of very little. Jaelle was the only one who would come to the tent, and provided my only company, save from the rats who would occasionally wake me up in the night as they approached my bedside cautiously, sniffing at my hands and feet.

Every few days Danoir would return with a replenished torch, or some wood and water. Keeping his distance a few yards away, he'd glance at me the same way each time, with warning, and a sense of unease that grew stronger every day. I would stand at the entrance to the tent, returning the cautious gaze. The dry air of the catacombs would suffocate the distance between us, and it felt like any further interaction would be the friction that ignited the spark. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse of Rhoda, or the shadow of her skirt as it disappeared around a corner, watching from an even further distance. Jaelle was unfazed at my treatment by the people of the court of miracles, and she would wave her hand in my face dismissively when I would grow frustrated asking why I was still being kept in their camp when they had no desire to have me there. Most of my other questions went unanswered by Jaelle, who would grow quiet and hastily change the subject or stop speaking all together.

Jaelle would come once in awhile with baskets of goods that had been stolen, no doubt from another maid-thief girl in the city. I would help her sort the goods out, using my previously useful skills to discern valuables from junk. I didn't ask who was bringing her the stolen objects, but painfully assisted her, thinking as I held up each gold necklace and each stolen wallet about the circumstances which had led me here, and wishing so bad to return to the surface and steal my old life back from whoever this girl might be. Occasionally she would catch me focused in this sad and detached day dream and rattle the basket of goods in front of me, bringing me back into my dirty tent at the edge of the court. But some days her eyes would pool with sympathy and she would softly say,  
"Chindilan?" A phrase in her language that translated to asking me if I had grown weary, and place a hand on my back.

The light was so dim in the catacombs, my eyes quickly began to grow tired from straining into the darkness at all hours of the day, unable to tell what time it was. Jaelle's herbs had helped my hand for a few days, and eventually she replaced the splint with clean bandages, but it had begun to turn in strange ways, the blues and purples fading to greens and yellows, the blood that had pooled under my fingernails drying up, but caused the ends of the fingernails themselves to turn black and begin to shrivel. The weight of the shackle around my ankle created shooting pains up and down my leg, and the rough iron had left scrapes all the way around it that burned when I moved. Every so often I would run my fingers through my hair and would find clumps of it left in my open hand. I felt so weak from hunger and pain it felt as though I slept most of the day, waking only for interactions with Jaelle, or late into the night and early mornings when I heard Danoir approaching the tent with scraps of food every few days.

Losing track of days, the time, and where I was resulted in endless stretches of time when nothing filled my mind but memories- moments from the past that flickered across the back of my eyelids like candle light on a dark evening. I would awake sometimes with a start, and in the darkness of my tent would think I was back in the cell in the Palace of Justice, or comfortably in my rented bed long before this began. Frollo's gnarled hands gripped around my hair, Jacques Desmarias pressing against my thigh, falling into deep holes in Clopin's eyes, floating and hitting the ground of the cell, awaking in my tent, short of breath.

One day, sifting through a crate of silverware as Jaelle quietly mumbled to herself, my reflection flashed across the untarnished surface of a spoon. My heart stopped as I caught my own breath and I impulsively dug to the bottom of the crate to procure it. My hand shook as I held it up to my face, and my own terrified and warped eyes stated back at me- they were bloodshot, and my dull, green eyes were intensified by the red veins that clouded the whites of them, streaking across them, ending with dark pits that encircled my their lids. I turned the spoon to see the rest of my face, and catching the sight of my hollowed cheek bones, highlighted by soot and dirt, I threw the spoon in frustration and put my head into my hands, smelling the dirty bandages and old, potent herbs that held my hand.

"Be careful with those!" Was all Jaelle responded, reaching towards the handle of the spoon with the tips of her fingers.

"Please... just poison me..." I mumbled quietly into my hands, unsure if Jaelle could hear me or not. I heard her rummaging through the box of silverware until a piercing shriek cut through the air outside of my tent.

"Parni beng!" the scream was furious, and terrified, and all too familiar. It hit me like a gentle breeze, an intensity that couldn't pull me from the cold depths of my self pity.  
"Uh oh." Jaelle said, and I could feel her head whip to the flap in the tent. "That doesn't sound good".  
"Or just... hang me..." I responded. I sensed Jaelle was pulling herself to her feet and staggering towards where the shriek had sounded, but I remained seated, head buried into myself like a branch stuck in the mud.

Jaelle's voice and the voice of the young woman, who Jaelle had called Rhoda, bickered outside of the tent. Something was impatient and frustrated in the voice of the young woman, but I remained unstirred, my muscles tensing uncomfortably and my stomach, swirling into a pit at the bottom.

It was a loud crash, the sound of wood breaking and falling over followed by a deep and sorrowful wail that caused me to lift my head slightly. The wailing continued, growing louder, angry words flowing with tears and commotion as strange voices surrounded it. Jaelle's voice disappeared into the crowd and I hesitated with my head up, despite the strain it was causing on my neck which begged to be lowered. I kept my eyes on the ground outside of my tent, though they too asked to be shut, to be put away and to allow me to slip into sleep. The voices drew nearer to the tent, and in an instant Jaelle was at the entrance, a look in her eye like wild fire.

"Girl!" she exclaimed, terrified. I did not stir. Suddenly Danoir stood beside her, swinging the burlap of the tent entrance out of the way and staring down at me sternly, the same look of terror crossing the harsh angles of his face. The two of them grabbed either side of me and brought me to my feet, before Danoir quickly turned and stood in front of me, shielding myself and Jaelle from what seemed like a large group of bodies, pushing themselves towards the entrance. Danoir pushed back against them, someone toppling onto the ground and causing the group to stumble away from the tent. My heart was now racing in my chest and I pulled back the tent flap over Jaelle's shoulder to see what had been happening.

A large, older man, with grooves filling every crevice of his soft face now sat on his knees, his head in his hands, sobbing. A group of people stood around him, some on one knee attempting to comfort him, others with knives drawn, aimed at either Danoir or myself. I felt the corner of Danoir's eye look back at me as I stood, stunned. He held arms out to people on either side, trying to talk to them calmly. As one man saw me pull the tent back he spat towards me, it landed on Danoir's leg and he grunted, frustrated. The sobbing man had taken his face out of his hand, revealing tears streaking down from either side. When he saw me he screamed, a sound that has haunted me ever since, and lunged towards me, falling onto his hands at Danoir's feet.

My breathing had grown heavy and Jaelle turned slightly towards me, eyes filled with sadness and fear.  
"Frollo has begun to arrest every romany in Paris, looking for you and Clopin." Jaelle whispered harshly. "This morning they took his wife and kids from the market to the palace."

As she said this, my heart stopped; frozen. It began to feel stretched and pulled as though it were being ripped apart. Air felt as though it had been taken from me, leaving me empty and swaying in the tense air like a branch off a dead tree. I felt as my eyes glassed over in tears; frustrated, exhausted and sad and I leaned closer to Jaelle.  
"I didn't ask..." I had begun, not noticing the air shift again, as Danoir stood from his position leaned over, comforting the man who continued to sob, and stepped away from me suddenly. I sensed as Jaelle's back tensed as well, the muscles in her shoulders twitching as she looked towards a thin silhouette of a person that had quietly approached the group.

I squinted through my hair, pushing some of the matted and dirty locks away from my view. All at once, my eyes dropped into the deep, dark pools of Clopin's eyes as he watched me, the same look of both caution and danger all at once crossing them. The men who stood in the group with knives pulled them back slightly, almost warily and watched as Clopin bent down to the man who sobbed, his head pressed against the ground. The crowd shifted their looks of anger and revenge onto the back of their King's head, clearly displeased. Clopin's voice was low and soft as he spoke to the man on the ground, who shuttered and breathed long, sad breaths in response. Clopin leaned back and lead the man up onto his feet by his hands. Once standing, he could not bring himself to look at me, instead his eyes were cast down at the ground, face filled with shame and sadness. Once again my heart sank and I felt it- cold and bloody, trying to continue to beat in my chest.

Carefully the crowd had put their arms around the man. Their eyes burned holes into me as they took their last looks before escorting him away, his soft cries slowly disappearing. I realized that standing at the tent were now just myself, Jaelle, Danoir and Clopin, and we all stood in silence as he disappeared. Rhoda stood in the distance, arms crossed. I could feel her gaze from back where the four of us were, holding the peaceful silence for one moment longer until-

Danoir turned angrily towards Clopin.

"I can not protect your toy any longer, Clopin." his voice was low and serious. Clopin turned back to him, almost amused, a similar smile in his eye that I had seen in Danoir himself. "If you want her alive, then you can defend her. It's only going to get worse."

"Nephew, I don't have time. We are planning to leave, and bringing everyone together is taking-"

"If we are leaving then why keep her here at all?" Danoir interrupted, and in a flash, a look of anger fell onto Clopin's face. "Send her out there, and we can leave." He finished. Clopin paused, angrily.

"We are not ready, it would be far too dangerous to leave now and-"

"So you keep this demon here while families are sent to die-"

"Stop!" Clopin yelled, silencing Danoir's next words. "...interrupting." He finished. Danoir clenched his jaw and leaned closer.

"You ask me not only to protect this girl, but to protect you, uncle. I cannot do both." He said sternly.

"She is my prisoner, Danoir. You will do as I say." Clopin's eyes flashed.

"Then you have fated us all to our deaths." Danoir responded. Clopin stood silent for a moment before turning to leave. I had been trying to keep my eyes lowered to the ground, but as he turned away I glanced up, just in time to catch them as they bore through me once again.

"She's just a girl, nephew. You can manage." As he spoke, his eyes tempted me with something, almost like a dare, or a threat. My hand throbbed as I pulled my eyes away from his, forcing them onto the cold, dark ground.

Once he had left, I felt Danoir's eyes on me once again before they, too, turned and began to walk away. Left now with Jaelle, who was still looking away from me, I felt as words tried to stir within me.

"Jaelle..." I softly muttered, and when she did turn to me at last, her eyes could not meet mine, as a look of concern and sadness had abducted her usually kind and welcoming face. Saying nothing, she quietly stepped out of the tent and grasped the tent flaps closed with her hand, holding it for a moment before softly walking away as well.

I stood in the dark and now empty tent. I placed my bandaged hand gently on my stomach, feeling for what felt an endless pit that had been ripped open in my from the night's events.


	17. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy, sinking.

As the night took hold of the underground world of the Romany people, the tension shifted with it. A crackle hung in the air which felt as though it was sparked alive with every loud sound, and every laugh, or cry would cause my stomach to turn once again. I sat on the edge of the straw mattress, watching the space between the entrance to the tent and the ground beneath it from overtop of my forearms, which hugged my knees close. 

As torches were extinguished, my vision began to blur ans I sat fixated on the spot. The argument between Danoir and Clopin clung to the place outside of the tent like a stain, and their words circled through my head. I couldn't stop thinking about the image of the man sobbing at my feet, and the longer I stared at the spot on the ground, the more twisted my stomach begun to feel. Hours passed as I sat like this, I was almost frozen in fear and frustration. Danoir's voice would creep in, like a phantom,

"If you want her alive, then you can defend her. It's only going to get worse." and I would think of the daggers in the hands of the Romany people, and the daggers that came from their eyes towards me.

Another crackle in the night, as a rat caused something to fall, or a babe stirred in its sleep, and chills would run down my spine.

In spite of myself, who sat alert and terrified, my heavy eyes fell shut. For what felt like a few seconds the words and images that had been haunting me stopped and were replaced by silent, peaceful, endless black.

Opening my eyes to two dark figures standing at the mouth of the tent felt like it could have been a dream, but I sat up calmly and unfazed. Torchlight danced across the stern and serious face of Rhoda, who stood beside Danoir in front of me. Danoir tossed a cloak at me.

"Put this on." He was trying to sound confident, and like he was in control of what was about to happen, but terror, rage and uncertainty danced beneath his words.

I pulled the cloak on and quickly grabbed my stockings and boots, pulling them on in a hurry. Rhoda clucked, frustrated, as I stood up. She reached out to adjust my cloak and I pulled back from her, warily. Ignoring me, she pulled the hood of the cloak further down and wrapped the hem around me tighter, then she pushed my hair behind my ears and I briefly caught a scent of her skin- her hands were warm on the side of my face and I tried not to close my eyes and fall into her soft touch in my exhaustion. When she finished the two stood staring at me silently. I frowned at them.

"What are you doing?" I finally asked. Danoir hesitated and his eyes shifted to the side quickly, Rhoda, too, looked away.  
"You are not safe here any longer." His voice was hushed and attempted at convincing.  
"Do you mean you're not safe with me here any longer?" I responded, surprised at the sound of my own raspy and bleak voice filling the air in front of me. Danoir held up a finger to his lips, his eyes pleading with me.

"As long as you're here, none of us are safe. Not you. Not us, not Clopin."

I glanced at Rhoda, whose normally stormy eyes laid calmly into the corner and refused to meet mine. I took a deep breath and looked towards the ground. I knew that he was right, and the promise of escape caused my heart to beat so hard I could hear it once again. The constant sound reminded me that I was not yet dead- that there might be hope, but even as I dared to think hopeful thoughts, Frollo's shadow, like it had in so many of my dreams, and every time we had spoken, shadowed every one of them. The dungeons, the palace, the cold grey of his eyes swirled through my mind as my image of the world beyond the Court.

"We must move quickly, and you-" Danoir leaned forward, trying to catch my eyes with his torch "Must leave Paris. And never return." He held his place there for a moment until I was staring back at him.

"Very well." I said, completing the deal.

Rhoda left the tent and Danoir followed, I left after them, the sudden and sharp pain from my ankle groaning as the shackle bit deeply into my flesh like it had so many times before. They swiftly moved in the darkness of the camp towards the far wall where the chain of my irons was held in place by a rusted iron spike, high up where no one could reach it. I frowned and watched as they walked towards a part of the chain that lay on the ground. Danoir knelt and produced a large spike like the one buried in the brick. Rhoda held the torch for him and he looked up, waving me over to them hastily. I glanced around at the darkness surrounding the tent before picking up the heavy chain and walking as quickly as I could, limping slightly from the pain in my foot.

Danoir placed the spike on a link in the chain close to the shackle and produced a small but heavy looking blacksmith's hammer. I stopped him, whispering in the darkness.  
"Why don't you just give me the key to the shackle?" I asked sharply. He glanced an impatient look at me as a response, positioning the large hammer over the spike.

As he steadied his hand, all three of us watched the hammer move quietly through the air before striking down on the spike with a clang. The sound echoed through the tunnel arches behind us. We all waited silently for a moment, without moving, out of fear that someone had heard the cry of the iron.

Then, Danoir inspected the chain. A small crack had formed on one side of the link and he repositioned the spike and steadied his hand once again. My heart fluttered in my chest, unsure if this was a dream, if I had still been sleeping and my mind was playing a cruel joke. I had begun to envision the route to the ports on the side of the river, and the tavern where I had heard you could meet captains and vagrants who would take you out to the sea. Memories of my journey to Paris long ago returned vividly, and my heart had begun to beat boldly in time with the many thoughts that fluttered through my mind. I focused anxiously on Danoir's hands as the hammer came up above the chain, and in the tense moment before the hammer fell again a voice sounded from the darkness that stopped all of our hearts. The hammer collided with the spike on an angle, and a clumsy clang rung out from it as all three of us jumped back, startled by the sound of a voice.

We all turned towards the darkness, and to our horror, to the silhouette of Clopin, who now stood just a few yards away from us. Frozen in disbelief, I can't remember what was going through my mind, as all of the thoughts I had just been entertaining broke open and slid like the innards of a slaughtered swine down my spine, settling coldly in my gut.

"Nephew?" His voice was light, almost jovial. He stepped soundly towards us and every part of me wanted to be able to run away. Danoir, still shocked, stammered in response, attempting to gather the spike and the hammer up quickly. Rhoda held the torch steady, but stood with wide eyes as her king advanced into the light. Clopin stood wearing the same clothes that he had that day in the market, complete with the half mask and the rich, dark purple robes, now ablaze with the light from the torch. "Oh, nephew! That is you. I was afraid that my prisoner was in the middle of escaping from me." He smiled.

Danoir stumbled to his feet, and hesitated only for a moment.  
"Uncle!" He cried. "Your- prisoner."  
"For once has the man born with teeth found himself without a tongue?" Clopin exclaimed, smiling towards Rhoda. If he was angry, I struggled to tell. Part of him seemed bemused with the situation, and his brown eyes would not turn to me in order to tell for myself. Rhoda exhaled sharply.

"Clopin!" She exclaimed. "She is gadjianke! They call for her death!"

Clopin turned to Rhoda, and it was then I saw a spark of rage as his eyes passed across the torch. He stared silently at her, and I heard her clench her jaw and exhale, frustrated, once again. She shoved the torch into the hands of Danoir, turned angrily and began to walk away. I watched as Clopin's eyes followed her, looking away quickly before I felt them fall on me.

"Uncle, please, we were trying to..." Danoir began, looking down. Clopin stretched his arm to reach over Danoir's broad shoulders. His gloved hands squeezed both sides of them.

"Your young wife seems upset. You should go to her." He said, sternly.

Danoir looked into his eyes and then looked to me. Then he, too, clenched his jaw before silently leaving the two of us in the darkness. I stood hugging the cloak close to me, staring out at the ground. Clopin watched as Danoir walked away, and when I felt his eyes shift to me the heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach returned. Eager to make the biting that filled it go away, I broke the silence as fast as I could.

"Why... Didn't you just leave me to die?" I asked him, my eyes closed. "If I am just to die here? Why bring me here?" My voice was growing thick with tears, which danced under my eyelids, but I choked them back to force the words out, and appear stern.

After a moment, his voice filled the darkness. I could sense the anger underneath it, but it came steadily and the sound of it gave me a strange sense of ease.

"You're not going to die here." He said. I felt my lip quiver, and turned my face further towards the hood of my cloak. Tears spilled from my eyes now, and I tried to breathe deeply in order to manage final words to him.

"I hope they kill us both." The words slipped uneasily from my mouth, my voice deep and unsteady, like a spectre. Pulling the cloak around me closer, I turned and began to walk back towards my tent, feeling as tears flowed down my cheeks. Unsteadily I walked to accommodate the heavy shackle, which continued to dig into my skin with each step.

Throwing back the burlap, I stood, my back turned to the entrance, trying to catch my breath. I wiped tears away on the hem of the cloak, the stiff wool scratching at underneath my eyes. My body shuddered as I tried to compose myself, the threat of more tears lingering, our first interaction since the night I was brought back here, playing through my mind. I felt the air shift as the flap entrance to the tent was pulled back once again and I held my breath, surprised.

"Don't walk away from me." Clopin whispered, harshly. Turning around, I met the eyes that had been following me from that day in the market, deep in their dark brown pools, an anger shook within him. He grabbed both of my arms. "You are my prisoner."

I ripped my arms free from his grip, pushing him away from me. "I am nothing of yours!" I shouted back, a sob erupting from deep within. Suddenly, one arm was snaked around my waist, and it pulled me close. The way this simple motion felt; his slender, muscular arms as they tensed against my side, instantly melted the pit in my stomach. The heavy rock that had been settled there cracked open, and a warmth washed over me that I barely remembered.

Instinctively, I pulled it off of me, pushing him back as I did so. "What are you doing?" my breath was hot in my throat. Ignoring me, his arm was wrapped around my waist once more, a second arm up higher, reaching towards my upper back, his arms tensing as they tried to pull me into him. The feeling returned and I choked it down as I pushed him away once again, and tried to step back, confused. His arms tightened as he held me in place, and finally our eyes met. It was a look I had not seen reflected in the shining, endless darkness of his eyes before now. A light flickered across them, and they glowed in the black of the tent, covered in shadow by the brim of his hat and the mask that surrounded them. Pulling me in close once again, the smell of ash, of spice, of the cool night air wafted from his clothes and his skin and I softened my resistance.

With the warmth of his gloved hands on my back and sides, pulled in to the nape of his neck was where I found his skin. Rested against my neck was where he found mine as well, and his mouth had begun to run back and forth across it with soft, but strong kisses. I closed my eyes, a feeling coming over me that had almost all but been forgotten. I couldn't remember the last time I hadn't been repulsed, or afraid, by the touch of a man. My gut had begun to twist in a different kind of way, curling joyously into itself as Clopin's hands found their way to my chest.

In an instant they had untied the bodice of my dress, the rough leather of his gloves brushed against my shoulders as the dress unfurled and the top fell to my waist. I stood, unsure of what to do with my hands, pressing further into the side of his neck with my mouth, eyes closed, breathing in every moment of him.

He stopped and removed his gloves slowly. A part of me wanted to push him away, suddenly realizing how exposed I was, standing with the top of my dress around my waist. But when I placed my hands gently on his chest to try and protest, something inside of me yanked back, like holding the reins of a horse. As his hands moved around me, every part of my sore body would soften under their warmth, sighing with pleasure and relief. And now, with the gloves removed, the shape of his long fingers as they ran across my bare chest made my heart begin to spark like flint being struck, as he carefully gathered each of my breasts into one of his hands and brought his mouth to them.

A heavy sigh erupted from deep inside of me as he did so, and I felt as the corners of his lips turned up into a smile against my skin. Heat was radiating through my body, sending hot chills across my flesh. The cloak, still around my shoulders, fell towards him and he stopped to unclasp it's hood, sending the heavy fabric falling to the ground and landing on the edge of the hay mattress. As I heard it land, blood rushed to my face, realizing that I stood mostly de-robed in front of this man I did not know, one who had called me his prisoner, placed a chain around my ankle and left me to die. And yet, the warmth that had risen through me from his touch persisted- coursing through my body.

I crossed my arms across my chest, uncomfortably, allowing my hair to fall in front of my face and looked away from him. Clopin reached his hands out and gently, but firmly, grabbed both of my wrists, pulling them back away from me. As I resisted he continued, guiding my hands up to rest on his shoulders and then reaching back towards me once again. In exchange, my hands continued up to his face, where they took hold of the sides of his mask. My bandaged, injured hand twitched as I hesitated, carefully touching my fingers to its sides. Our eyes locked, and I grasped the thick ribbons on either side and carefully pulled it lose. Underneath the purple and gold gilt of his mask, his face was serious and calm. Flames danced across his eyes as they studied me, and I studied them. It was then that he took one side of my face and pulled me in to a deep kiss.

He parted my mouth with his own, and his hot tongue began to massage mine, causing a low whimper to escape from deep inside me with an exhale. With one hand on my lower back, and the other holding the side of my face, he began to slowly guide me backwards. As the back of my feet hit the pile of straw, surprise and light headedness caused me to mis step and stumble. His arms half caught me, and I found myself on my back, knees bent in front of me in a sudden, smooth movement. I felt vulnerable and afraid all of a sudden, like a cat, waiting to defend an attack. My eyes followed his hands down, and when he reached for his belt I scrambled to a seat and pushed myself up, as far into the back of the thick burlap behind me as I could go, until the shackle around my ankle sank into my flesh with a sudden jerk, and I cried out.

Clopin lunged at me and placed a hand over my mouth, staring down at me with intensity. He silently shushed me as I pried back one of his fingers until he released it.

"Take this off of me!" I hissed, rattling the chain in aggravation. Sitting back, Clopin's eyes gleamed for a moment, but then fell dark. 

"You know I can't do that?" he frowned slightly.

Clumsily I pulled my dress back over my shoulders and held it together at my chest. We sat in silence for a moment, what felt like leaves made of iron turned hot in my stomach. Fiery chills ran across my skin, begging for his warm hands to grace it once again. Yet, every part of me from my lips, blissfully sore from his rough mouth on mine, and down between my legs, throbbed in betrayal of my heart, which was sinking into heavy chains like the one around my ankle.

Sitting silently, I weighed on which I would have to deny. Before I could decide, Clopin shifted his weight to one knee, and went to stand up. I watched helplessly as my arms shot out in front of me, grabbing the sides of shirt and pulling him into me. It was hard to tell if it was the shame or the desire that radiated, red hot, across my cheeks and through my ears, but as his tongue found itself dancing with mine once again, and his hand slid itself under my dress, cupping my breast with one strong hand, I pushed the feeling of my heart constricting painfully out of my mind. Where the emptiness in my chest burned in its own smouldering flame, I replaced it with a growing blaze left by his hands and tongue and spit.

Reaching for his belt once again, his eyes watched me carefully, like a hunter eyeing game caught in a trap. I leaned back, allowing the vulnerability to wash over me uncomfortably, telling him with a slow blink to continue. One arm snaked under one of my thighs and pulled it aside gracefully, pulling himself closer to me. Closing my eyes, I felt as hot pressure shot from my stomach up through my chest, materializing as a warm gasp that slipped through my lips, slick with pleasure as he filled me with himself. When he placed a hand over my mouth once again, I gratefully filled his palms with whispered curses, heavy breaths and muffled moans as he rhythmically returned and pulled away, leaving pleasant friction which radiated throughout my whole body.

As we pressed against each other, the heavy chain around my ankle rattled in time, sinking repeatedly into my flesh. The sound was distant and hazy, hidden in between our heavy breaths and sinful pleasures, but I could no longer feel the pain of it.

I awoke to the sound of hens clucking and the smell of morning hearths smoking, unsure if it had all truly happened. As a draft from under the burlap tent crossed my bare chest, I realized that my foggy, sweet memories had been real, as quickly as I realized my dress lay tucked into a corner of the quilt. I scrambled to throw it back over my head, tying it together hastily. The salty taste of spit and sweat lingered on my lips, the smell of Clopin across my skin.

It had happened? Memories washed over me, causing my stomach to drop in a delightful tension. My mouth felt raw, having been broken in and used by his strong, yet soft lips.

But what would happen now?

The pleasurable tension that hung in my stomach felt as though it had been abruptly tossed into a burlap sack and as it sunk to the bottom of my insides, it dragged every sweet memory with it. Would he return? To set me free? I tried to imagine him doing so, us being together. We stood like wooden shadows down a dark tunnel of forced fantasy as I strained to see us, out in the court of miracles, embracing. I recoiled from the scene I was attempting to paint in my mind, captivated by a terrifying idea- what if this had been why I was brought here? And now that it was over...

In an instant, Jaelle stood before me, eyes wild, the flap of my tent draped over one arm.  
"Mademoiselle!" She whispered fiercely. I turned to her, eyes matching hers, hands instinctively going to the ties on my dress to ensure they were done up.  
"Jaelle!" I exclaimed.

She stepped in, her one leg which held a limp dragging a bit behind her.

"What were you thinking?" Confused, I frowned, unsure of what she knew. How long had she been there? Had she seen me get dressed?  
"I- Um..." I searched the ground for something to say. "You.. heard?" was all I could put together.  
"We all know. How could you be so stupid?!" She crouched down to my level and grabbed my arm. I pulled it back from her.  
"What do you think you know?"  
Jaelle frowned at this intensely, but I said nothing more.  
"Danoir told me of your escape plan, and being caught by Clopin. You fools." She said, judgment stirring her words, stinging as she said them. I glanced back to the ground, and feigned defensive.

"What would you have me do? I can't just wait here to be murdered, or until my arm rots off, or till I become an entire leper myself." I muttered, frustrated, tracing awkward circles on the mattress beneath me. Jaelle was silent and I glanced up to catch her sky-black eyes suspiciously scanning my face, the frown deepening the many folds on her face. Afraid of what she might find, I looked away.

After she sat silently for a time, she sighed gently, and brought herself to her feet unsteadily.  
"I hope you have not made things much worse for yourself." She said over her shoulder, quietly leaving the tent once again.

I sat in the quiet morning, alone.

"I hope so too." I whispered.


	18. Fièvre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a whip on fire.

I remember that the rest of that day dragged on unsteadily, like an illusion that had begun to wear off, or smoke clearing from a room. As fear and uncertainty spun around my mind, memories would suddenly emerge crystal clear, and heat would rise through me. But the day marched on quietly around me, passing into another lonely evening. I had run out of wood for a fire, the torch last left to me had long turned to ash. Nobody came that night with water or food, and I found myself sitting on the edge of the same pile of straw that hours before I had been swallowed in his warm grasp. Sitting with the quilt wrapped around my shoulders, the memories made me feel more lonely than ever before, far away from everyone tucked in with their wives and children for the night. My heart stirred uncomfortably and I was suddenly ashamed for thinking he might return for me. At some point or another, I must have fallen asleep.

Many more of these days passed, and with them each detail of being with Clopin faded, until recalling it felt as though I was staring down the bottom of a well. Jaelle had been scarce since that first morning afterwards, and I noticed that in Danoir's place, a young man came every few days with food or water. Each time I thought of Clopin my heart would drop suddenly, shame feeling like it was pooling in my cheeks. I had let him take what he wanted, and now if it had been his curiosity that had saved me from the palace and brought me here, it was now extinguished. These thoughts would cause my heart to tighten angrily, and trigger a faint memory of our bodies entwined with each other. Sometimes the two would wrestle in my head all day and late into the night. Other days and other nights, my stomach ached with hunger when I thought about him, and I would pray silently to hear his feet approach my tent. Then, the weight of the shackle I wore would seem to increase, weighing down on my bone, and I would instead curse myself for my weakness, and begin to fantasize about escape.

As the days dragged by I grew to be so angry and tired I stopped thinking all together. A dull pain had begun to grow deep down inside my gut, and I allowed my mind to sink into it. When the young man stopped by with food and water, I no longer met him outside the tent. It felt as though I no longer needed to eat or drink, as the heavy pain of hopelessness had settled firmly in me like an anchor. For several days I would open my eyes to the sounds of morning, and remain wrapped in the quilt on the mattress into the evening, slipping in and out of sleep.

I remember a dream I had that felt like it never ended. It was interrupted by entire days of wakefulness but waited for me when my eyes would finally fall close once again. I was in a heavily wooded forest, so full of trees it was almost night under the canopy. Clumsily I was pulling myself towards a clearing, basked in sunlight in the distance. Roots ripped themselves from the ground and would slip around my ankles, trying to pull me back. When I finally reached the clearing, a hooded figure knelt in front of a deer calf, lying on its side, insides falling out of a large gash which opened up its belly. Each time I approached the clearing, the figure would turn to me and reveal a skeletal face, with flames buried deep in its eye sockets. The dream felt as though it would begin again, and I was clawing my way through the brush towards the clearing once more.

My eyes opened calmly very late into one of those nights, or so, very early in the morning, leaving behind the faint image of tree roots pulling at my legs. In the faintest of light, I found myself staring at a pair of boots directly in front of me. Almost frightened, I followed them up to a familiar silhouette, who I could only recognize by the feeling of its shadowed eyes as they observed me from behind the cloak of darkness that was inside the tent.

Believing I was trapped in a dream, my arm shot out from underneath the quilt and gently grasped one of the leather boots. When the foot underneath my fingers did not disappear into smoke, we both stayed silent. My body moved like it was not my own, being controlled by invisible threads as I pulled myself up to my knees now directly at his feet, my head tilted back, trying to find his eyes in the dark. I stayed here, patiently, like a cat waiting for a meal, eyes just barely making out a trace of his lips. Finally he spoke,

"How is my prisoner?" his voice filled my head with light and nearly made me dizzy. I leaned forward and pressed my head to his thigh, closing my eyes and relaxing into his smell, feeling Clopin's leg tense up in surprise.

"I am not your prisoner." I sighed.

A gloved hand reached down and took hold of my chin in its grasp, it began to turn my head back to face him. I resisted its pull and the tension increased, until my throat was pressed to his leg, head tilted to see an amused smile glistening in the darkness of the tent.

"Aren't you?" he replied, amused, as I felt pressure from inside his drawers as they began to grow against the skin of my neck.

Swiftly, he removed his gloves, using his warm hands to guide me onto my back. I held my hands out in front of me like a barrier and stopped him with his chest just as he was about to fall between my legs, stretching his body towards me almost as if he were going to kiss me. The hard, sickly feeling deep in my gut turned. Unfazed by my protests, a hand groped its way around my thigh and towards my buttocks. The melting feeling like hot butter being churned in my chest washed over me as he slid down from my hands and placed wet kisses on the inside of my thigh. Chills ran up and down my back, and the feeling caused me to gasp in spite of myself, heat radiating from between my legs. I felt his lips on my sensitive skin turn up into a smile as the breath filled my lungs.

Suddenly I found his arms were wrapped around my hips and he pulled himself ontop of me, causing the shackle jerked at an uncomfortable angle and hit the raw flesh it had been eating away. A painful jolt of lightening shot up my leg and I kicked out, just missing Clopin's face with my knee. I cried out painfully and reached towards it. Clopin's hand was instantly grasped around my mouth and disapproving brown eyes staring into mine ferociously while his other hand firmly held the back of my head.

He waited in the darkness for to ensure nobody had heard me and I panted against his palm, my leg shaking and my toes curled in pain. When he took his hand off, I realized that a tear had fallen from my eye. Very weakly I said,

"Let me go, or kill me."

Clopin glanced away, unable to meet my eye. He pushed himself up to a seated position.

"...I can't." His voice was defeated and it stirred anger within me.

"You can. You just don't want to." I responded, my eyes falling to the opposite corner of the tent. I felt his frustrated stare on the side of my face. He stood up and leaned over me.

"It's... not that simple... " As he spoke, pain radiated from my ankle, up my torso and under the bandage that held my hand, as if his words had caused the injuries themselves. I winced slightly.

"Then tell me--"

"I can't!" He whispered harshly, his dark brown eye gliding towards me. I clenched my jaw, pain radiating through me again. 

The air between us grew heavy for a moment, tense frowns crossing both of our faces. Eventually he grunted, frustrated. "Very well, then." but as he turned to leave-

"Wait." I said, stopping him. I crawled towards his legs and fell towards his feet, feeling his eyes as they bore through the back of my head from above. Slowly, I began to move my way up his calfs, feeling the muscles in them twitch and tense under my hands which gently roamed towards his thighs. Reaching his thighs, I softly ran my lips over the front of them, moving closer to his loins, his manhood now stood firmly inside of his pants.

When I looked up into his eyes, summoning every part of seduction that I could to reflect in mine, I was met with an almost pained look crossing his. Despite being pressed against one another in this position, his eyes were distant, like he was holding them back, but the look of desire that I had seen the first time we were together burned deep within them, and he could not seem to deny it. I moved my hand over his belt and his hand moved down swiftly, strongly gripping my wrist and pulling it away. With a strong grasp on my wrist, he pulled me up to my feet, our torsos pressed to one another. The friction on the shackle and the slight pain that remained in my hand caused me to clench my teeth again, but I did not cry out as we stood face to face. Still holding my wrist in front of me, his hands found their way to my hips and in an instant our mouths were intertwined again. Hot breaths were passed back and forth, and our tongues met in warm and blissful movements in between.

His taste, his scent, overpowered my upset, and were antidotes to everything that hurt- which had ceased to exist as his hands found their way into my dress and gently groped my chest. Clopin pulled my leg up by the thigh, anchoring it around him. Absorbed by his every movement, totally succumbed to the desire that burned deep within me, all thoughts had stopped once again, and all I wanted was to drink every moment of him in. He pulled back his belt and in one hot, wet, movement found his way inside of me. The momentary burst of bliss was suddenly unpleasantly overpowered by a sharp, burning pain. It was the dull pain I had begun to feel days before, which sat deep down within me, only expanded, activated, angered.

I cried out loudly and Clopin's eyes widened with fear, but as he went to place a hand over my mouth I pushed him off of me, doing everything in my power not to double over in agony as what felt like coals seared through my stomach. The sudden pain caused my hand and leg to begin to throb as well, and beads of sweat broke out instantly across my face, cold chills racing up my back.

Clopin stumbled back, a look of confusion and nearly concern crossing his face. He had gone to say something but a swell of fire erupted once again and I choked back tears, the pain was unbearable.

"Get out!" my voice was a low growl. I was unable to look at him, but I felt his glare of arrogance and frustration from behind the veil of hair that clung to my face with sweat.

"If I leave now, I will not be able to return..." He responded, but the pain was too great. It radiated through me, like a whip on fire, licking my guts from my groin to my chest.

"Go." was all I managed to say.

His frown deepened, but still turned swiftly and disappeared into the early morning darkness. Once I no longer heard his footsteps on the soft earth, I folded over onto the ground, holding my stomach. It felt as if a demon was clawing its way around my insides, scratching at the surface and trying to chew its way out. My stomach then growled in an awful way, and it felt as though my face began to run red hot.

I tried to gently lower myself onto my bed, my limbs shaking, beads of sweat falling from my face and briefly staining my under dress. The last that I remember from that night, and many of the nights that followed, was a dream-like sickness and a fever that consumed me.


	19. Rêve de Fièvre Une

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At once the King and the Fool.

Clopin left the tent, frustrated. He hastily put his belt back together and attempted to smooth out his ratty dark purple clothes, slipped his long fingers into his coarse leather gloves and ran them down the front of his tunic. His heart was still racing, a troublesome result from seeing her— that English girl, whose name he struggled to keep buried in a hole in the back of his mind. But each day it clawed through the loose dirt and called to him until he heard it in his own voice: Victoria.

He tried to shake it from his head once again, swallowing heavily in order to manage the gnawing, just as troublesome, desire that filled him when he was near her. With her name, the dark green of her eyes sparkled in his memory; the pleading and lonely, familiar look twisting knots in his stomach. He groaned silently, and retraced the carefully chosen path which took him from her isolated tent to the center of the makeshift village with low risk of being seen.

The morning was slowly beginning, and people were stirring in their quarters as children awoke and hens clucked. To avoid suspicion, he kept a steady pace and his hat brim pulled down as much as possible to keep his face in shadow.

All that had just happened turned unpleasantly in his mind like a bad brew. First the sweet taste of her, her scent, the warm rush of wanting and feeling of her soft skin were dizzying, intoxicating. But then her hand, her ankle, her cries and the harshly whispered words ordering him to leave weighed down on his mind. He clenched his jaw in frustration, turning over each moment.

Despite the transient history of his people, Clopin had grown up in Paris. Having come to the city as a child, his parents were of some of the first Romany people to arrive in the city along with Jaelle, her husband and children. As he got older, more and more families from across the world arrived, and with them the distrust and hatred of their kind.

After a number of the Romany who lived with Clopin and his family had gone missing in Paris one summer, leaving behind small children, wives and husbands, they had brought the group to the catacombs. Claude Frollo had been a young man then, and assisted the archdeacon of the time- a cruel older man, now indistinguishable from who Frollo had become- in the mysterious tragedy. Or so the story had gone. Clopin's father had taken charge of protecting all the Romany who remained in Paris, and all those who were to arrive. Because of this, Clopin, his mother and older brother remained in the Court, while their romany brothers and sisters travelled the world, roaming between cities.

When Frollo became the archdeacon himself, he was informed as to the actions of Clopin's father, and just as mysteriously as the others had disappeared, so too did his father and older brother one day. His brother, Leander, left behind a young wife and child, his nephew Danoir. Clopin had been just barely a man then then, and reluctantly stepped into the role of protector of the Romany people in Paris.

Clopin sighed deeply thinking of his parents all of a sudden. "They were not careful enough." He had often thought. But then, he remembered that day in the market, and the brush of another's hand in a deep pocket...

"...Gypsy." she had exclaimed, unsure. That was the first time he had seen her- their eyes locking on each other in the crowd. He had become too comfortable, performing near the markets, surrounded by them all, and long forgotten the struggles his father had gone through to ensure the safety of their people.

Clopin's route took him to the opposite far edge of the Court. He glanced around quickly to ensure nobody could see him before disappearing behind a stack of empty crates and barrels, pulling aside an old piece of cloth that hung in the dark corner. Behind it was a narrow corridor made of old stone, nearly pitch black. Anyone else who might have found it may have mistaken it for a dead end, but Clopin had claimed this space for himself many years ago. He followed it to a makeshift ladder at the end, carefully climbing it to the top. Here he pushed on a wooden door and with a cloud of dirt from the dirt floor it was built into, emerged in an abandoned building. Rats and doves rustled and fled as he did so, and early morning grey light of late winter filled the dark, damp room. Clopin silently lowered the door, moving the earth over it, making sure nobody could find it even in the brief time he would spend there.

Swiftly he moved to a far wall and climbed up the bits of wooden scaffold and rotting frame of the old building, it brought him to a loft upstairs, and a pane-less window sat in the corner, covered by burlap which fluttered in the cool wind. Clopin slumped down beside it and glanced out at the expansive grey sky that hung above the city.

All Romany children were taught to deceive outsiders. It was not to be scoundrels, but to keep Romany people safe. Their cause for remaining wary of anyone not born into a Romany family was sound— as groups of Romany passed through Paris, all that Clopin heard of were the murders, disappearances, exiles. Some countries it was taxes, others took Romany as slaves. Wandering, thieving, gypsies, so the story goes. Gadjikane, not-gypsies, were not to be trusted. And yet, he had brought her here. She sat in the court, amongst his people. He had brought the wolf to their flock. Being stationary most of his life had caused enough distrust amongst his people as it was. His understanding of French in addition to the Romany tongue, English and others assisted in protecting the many different well traveled people who arrived at their camp, but it also set him aside from his own. Now there was this, the gadjikane prisoner. His jaw clenched again.

Clopin had used his position as a leader to avoid many intended marriages. It wasn't safe. This wasn't an excuse, it was true. His father and brother had both disappeared, it could have just as easily had been Clopin there with him that day. True as it was, there was something else. The weight of his position as king caused many sleepless nights. His fear of making a mistake overcame his fear of not leaving an heir to his position. As long as he could keep himself alive... But the girl herself troubled him, the pull that she'd had on him since the first time their eyes had interlocked. She had been the reason he had been arrested, taken to the palace and tortured. Those eyes had run back and forth across his mind while he lay in his cell, alone. He remembered thinking the night that she was tossed into his cell that he had somehow summoned her himself just by how intensely he had thought about them, cursing them. And there she had been, at his feet, just as she was moments ago.

Clopin kicked a dusty piece of stone with his foot, hearing it skitter into the darkness of the abandoned shack. The stark black of the city's skyline stood in front of the soft, dark sky of early morning. Clopin watched as smoke billowed from chimneys and the soft sound of horse hooves on stone rang in the sleepy start to the day.

What was it that compelled him to risk the well being of his people? And to disgrace the memory of his family? He had wrestled with it since he had seen her thrown into the cell, her hand crushed by the iron of the gate, that night when the guard ran his hands over her.

And then, the final night when he had realized he was afraid to leave her behind. Afraid of the things she knew, but also of being haunted by her, the possibilities of what might happen to her. Against his will, something in her spoke to him. Being alone in Paris, and English, he was captured by her loneliness, her fear, but also her strength. After all that she had been through, she was still alive. In the depths of his mind, his own voice laughed, knowingly.

You haven't figured it out yet? You truly are a fool.

It rolled like thunder through the back of his head. He knew that his own people had been speaking to each other, in hushed voices, under veils of darkness. But as he stalked through the night around the Court, pacing at untraceable distances from the tent of the girl, he had heard them. They asked why he would be keeping her as a prisoner, so close to them. Why was she not left in the catacombs to die? Or hung for all the Court to see? Intruders, French and English alike had been put to death, tried by the Court, for less.

"At least she's not French." He thought to himself. There had been a few other women outside of the Romany people. Bored wives or women of the evening. Each time he had connected with a woman of his own kind, a fear gripped his heart. It was seen as dishonourable to break the promise of an arranged marriage to Romany people, but Clopin felt though he may have been saved this long by how many times he had protected them in the past, saved their necks from the gallows.

They were his family and he loved them more than anything, but he couldn't be with one of them. And yet, these feelings for the girl who now stayed in the court of miracles, shackled by his own doing, bothered him. Suddenly, he had to admit to himself that he did not know what he was going to do with her now.

Clopin had sat across from her in the cold dungeon cell, his mind racing the night Frollo had thrown her into the dungeon. He watched her that whole first night, unable to sleep. In a way, she had been with him the whole time, had followed him from the market, her eyes stuck in his head. Her hand, twisted and shaking in the sliver of moonlight. She had shivered, frighten and in pain in the corner of the cell as he struggled not to approach her once more, to see her eyes again. Thoughts flickered through his mind until the light came in through the cracks in the walls and the guards appeared to take him away.

As Frollo's voice hissed and pain pooled under his flesh, being twisted and smashed by the guards who worked in the dungeons, he remembered thinking only of her. Not of his people, and his need to return to them, but of her. He had to make it back to her, she was alone, she shouldn't have been there, if he could make it through the night, and the nights that followed maybe she would have a chance.

And then, following darkness, his eyes had opened on the final night and he watched as she retrieved the key and showed it to his men. Her eyes from the market flashed across his mind, their sadness burrowing into him. They had forced her to find him, someone she thought wanted to kill her.

The girl had gone against Frollo himself. Alone in the world, all she had was her life, and she had given it to him. Clopin had imagined her dark green eyes, twisted in pain as iron and steel- hot and cold were brought down into her flesh. He had seen Frollo's phantom hands grasping her delicate, pale throat. The hands of the guards turning her body over theirs. Clopin had spoken without another thought- the words had slipped from his mouth as he watched her fall back, the hand of his own protector striking against her face.

At least, with him, he would know where she was. He could in some way defend her. The image of her ankle, shackled to the wall then emerged, and he recalled how she begged him to remove it from her leg. The sinking in his heart when he thought of what would happen if he did released her, and how they would both face grave danger.

Clopin remembered a dream he had, the night following the one in which they had first spent together, their clothing pooled around their ankles, intertwined in her tent.

In it, he was walking through the court, pushing through crowds of people. As he did so, he turned to see their faces, but they all wore dark red robes that concealed their faces and crosses like the men of the clergy of France. Confused, he had continued to wade his way through the faceless bodies until he found the tall platform at the far end of the Court. On top of it, first he recognized Danoir and Rhoda, they were arguing with Jaelle and Harmon and all four of them spoke at the same time. Then he had seen Victoria, standing above the trap door. Her hands were tied behind her back and a noose fell gently over her neck, trapping her long pale brown hair to her flesh. One of the people covered by the cloak tightened it as she searched the crowd nervously.

As Clopin went to step closer, there was a sharp tug on his leg. He looked down at his ankle and saw a thick iron chain stretching out under the legs of the people, they stared out from the shadows of their faces blankly. He pushed some of them aside but saw that the chain went on further. Turning sharply to Victoria, he recoiled in horror as she now dangled from a shackle that was tightly clamped around her neck, an iron chain snaking up over the beam in place of the rope of the noose. Her lifeless eyes, surrounded by the pale of her face fell onto him, her mouth open at a grotesque angle. Clopin went to move again, lunging toward the platform, but the chain pulled tight once more. He then followed the chain which hung from her neck down the platform and through the crowd of people. The dream had ended when he pulled on the chain around his own ankle sharply, watching as it tugged on her neck, realizing they were connected.

He had awoken, beads of sweat sticking to his face. What had he done? If his people had found out that they had been together, they would call for both of their deaths.

His only choices were to set her free, and risk that his own people would put her to death, or to bring her back to the world above the Court of Miracles. Clopin had grown afraid. If he had returned her to Paris, she was a criminal, and escaping from the Palace of Justice with a Gypsy fugitive was far worse of a crime than to be a thief. And then, what he was wrestling with, what he was afraid was the real reason he couldn't let her go. Clopin would never see her again.

The memories stung like water on a fresh cut. He hadn't been able to stay away from her, even if it was what was best, but returning to her that morning... the burning of the painful memories roared as he thought about the way she had cried out so suddenly, the pain in her eyes as she held a hand to herself. His heart suddenly ached, as he remembered his frightening image of her, alone, tortured, in pain. And now he knew what it would have looked like, and it was he who had caused it.

In the distance, the bells of Notre Dame rang out a moment of reprieve. He counted the heavy tolls that lay their spell across the rooftops down below, though he already knew by the many different tones in the aria of their morning song that he had already stayed too long. Clopin placed his head in his hands for a moment and gently massaged his temple, before getting to his feet and beginning his descent back to the catacombs.

Days passed like clouds in the night; they rolled by, real— but ephemeral, fleeting. Clopin avoided the far edge of the Court of Miracles as though it were the plague itself. He was fortunate that a group of Romany were set to arrive in the coming days from Barcelona. The King of Spain had granted a safe pilgrimage to Spanish romany, or Gitanos, as they were called there. A small group of Romany who Clopin had known since they had all been children set out for the journey that would take a sennight. Entering Paris for Romany was difficult, but gitanos would pretend to be Christian pilgrims, and this would grant them safe passage into France, and would begin to take the underground sanctuary of Romany back to Spain with them until the end of Summer. Or so he hoped.

The planning had made him nervous enough that every time he thought of the girl, and the last time he saw her, a gnawing, unpleasant feeling quickly filled his heart before falling like a fowl shot from the sky into his stomach.

Something did not feel right.

But as everyone began to prepare the Court for their gitanos brothers and sisters, he pushed it further out of his mind. It was best they didn't know of her existence at all. Inside, however, he pressed himself day after day against a vaulted door that held all of the memories of the night they had spent together- the feeling of being inside of her, the taste of her that stayed on his lips. Like monsters in the night, they threw themselves against the door, begging that he set them free.

Reality would snap like the chain around her neck in his nightmare, and he would think to himself:  
No, this is the end of it. Once the gitanos had left, he would figure out what to do. Surely by then he would know.

It was one early evening, less than a fortnight since the last time he had seen her, that Clopin's walk took him closer to the far edge of the Court's winding rows of tents than he had been since that last early morning. Deep in thought he walked by, avoiding it by keeping his gaze fixed on the ground ahead of him. But a large, dark shape yards away from the tent that moved in the early evening glow caught the corner of his glare and he stopped suddenly to look closer. Moving towards the shape, he found that a group of stray dogs who lived in the Court stood, heads down licking and biting at something on the ground.

Clopin cautiously approached them, the biting sense of dread that had filled him since he had seen Victoria last continued to grow stronger as the scene came into view. Big, black flies buzzed around the heads of the hounds and as he approached some stopped and looked up, inquisitively. Once he had reached where they all stood, they skittishly took off in different directions while others stayed and looked up at him, puzzled. Slowly, afraid of what he might find, Clopin stepped into the middle of where the dogs had just stood and peered down. Metal plates, full of old food scraps sat piled on top of each other. Flies crawled in and around the bones of chicken carcasses that had already been picked clean long before being brought to where they now lay. Clopin could see that a small pile of maggots writhed beneath the foundation of the pile of food.

Realizing who the food had been left for, his heart began to beat wildly. His eyes darted to the tent, but there was no sign of movement. Glancing around, he felt curious eyes in the distant, and realized his fist had been clenched so hard his knuckles were turning white. Reluctantly, he pulled himself away from the dogs, who calmly returned to searching for any morsel of meat on the bones left behind. Slowly uncurling his fist, Clopin made his way back to his quarters until dark.


	20. A Fever Dream Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and the Queen of Staffs

Jaelle ran her dark and weathered hands over the fine filigree of a silver chalice that she had been inspecting. Her blurry reflection stared back at her, distorted nearly black eyes returned her gaze until she had to look away. Sighing heavily she placed it on the small table that sat in front of her and looked to a distant spot at the back of her caravan. Surrounding her, stacks of crates lined the walls, obscuring the colorfully painted wooden behind them.

The many crates were not only filled with stolen goods, but also an immense collection of objects acquired from her nearly sixty years of life, and especially full of the time she spent before arriving in Paris. Silks, tapestries and furs lined the walls and were draped over the many cushioned seats placed on the floor. But everything that had no room, was packed into one of these many crates. To anyone else, the small caravan was madness, but Jaelle knew where every item was in the crowded space.

The cup had been brought to her by a young girl the day before, she was not yet fourteen, and had been sent to Paris not long ago by her family to work as a scullery maid in a household. Yet Jaelle could not lift her mind from one particular servant girl. She sighed once more thinking of her.

After Jaelle had visited Victoria that morning in the small, isolated tent that she had been forced to live since returning from the Palace, Jaelle and Clopin had crossed paths. It took a strong force to stop Jaelle in her tracks, as it took just as great a force to get her old bones going in the first place. But as she limped back to her caravan, she felt a sudden draft cross her. Jaelle still remembers the look in his eye as he leaned against a stack of barrels, partly covered in shadows, watching her. She squinted to see him in the dim light of morning, but once she had focused on him, it was his look that had caused her not to return to Victoria since that day.

His eyes had hit her, like a warning shot sent from a bow.

It had given her a sour feeling in her stomach, like one she may have gotten as a child after eating the wrong berry or plant from the woods. The look felt like it marked her, and had followed her for each day since. It seemed to tell her that he was watching, and dared her to return to see the girl. But she worried. She hadn't dared go near the far edge of the court, in case she caught a glimpse of the girl, or didn't catch any glimpse at all, which she feared even more.

Something had shifted, changed, and the air was heavy with an ill-fated decision. The morning following her visit, she remembered finding a configuration in the leaves from her kahve. Dark clumps of plant matter showed her that two had come together, but only one would remain.

Two had come together? She remembered the prophecy which found her that morning and a slight chill up her back. It was out of fear that she had not returned to see the girl, but as each day passed she grew more and more afraid.

Clopin himself had not returned, which she knew from watching the one route he took towards the tent on the outer edge where he had been keeping the girl, day after day. But she hadn't seen him, slinking his way towards it, thinking that he had gone unseen, nor had she felt his presence. He was preoccupied with their plans to move the large gathering of Romany out of Paris.

Jaelle's husband, Harmon, had left with some others to meet their brothers and sisters in Spain and make arrangements for the travel of everyone else. Their makeshift village had been growing for years- entire generations had been raised in the Court of Miracles, and many others found their way to the Court as it had become a sort of refuge for Romany in the strange lands that they had come to live. 

Jaelle and Harmon had come when they, themselves, were young. Jaelle longed to leave Paris, as she was born from the heat of Turkish lands, and the winters of her life had become longer and longer with each passing season, but being without her husband was difficult even at her age. Harmon had left days before the girl had returned from the Palace. After he had showed her out of the Court that ill fated morning, he returned to Jaelle with sadness written across his face.

The two had not believed that she would return from the Palace, and neither were certain they would see Clopin again. Jaelle had been sure that days before the girl had arrived in the court, before Jaelle had even known that she was brought there, that she had felt her light go out. She had even lit a rush light for her to burn over night. If Harmon had still been there, he would know what to say. He would have spoken to Clopin, reasoned with him, and perhaps the girl could go free. With the impending visit from the Spanish Gitanos, Clopin would become more difficult to approach about her well being- as his pride would distract him, prevent him from doing so. And the Gitanos, as well as their fellow Romany from the Court, would not be so forgiving as to her presence. Jaelle felt as though what she thought she had been told in her kahve that morning was that something had already shifted, and maybe it was now too late for the girl.

This thought stirred in her once again and she looked down to her hands, sadly. She remembered the day that Victoria had presented herself, an intended servant at a household. Jaelle had clucked her tongue and huffed at the girl.  
"What use is an English servant in France? You should find yourself in the country, on a family's land. And fast, harvest is soon approaching."

She remembered advising her, a cruel amusement crossing her face in her smile. Victoria's frown had deepened, but she did not argue.

At the end of her first week, she had returned to Jaelle seemingly empty handed. Jaelle had thrown her head back and cackled.  
"It's just as I told you, foolish girl-" She had begun, but before she could continue, the girl had untied her apron and reached into the front of her dress, retrieving three strands of gold necklaces. Jaelle had blinked in disbelief, and Harmon had let out one deep laugh at his wife's hastiness.

A look of pride crossed Victoria's eyes as she tossed the necklaces to the table in front of Jaelle. That week had been meager, and the couple had been struggling to make themselves dinner, she remembered how pleased she was with the girl she even let her eat with them that night. Over time, the English girl proved herself as a cunning thief. She was often overlooked, as she was rarely spoken to directly by the other servants, or the mistresses of the homes where she worked. Jaelle also believed that her cunning came from her upbringing as an orphan. Other girls who came to the city were sent by their parents- unable to be kept at home and too poor for marriage proposals, the girls were sent to the cities to find husbands and work. But the English girl had taken care of herself, and it was not easy to be a singlewoman, without a belonging of some sorts to call home, the way that Jaelle had her people, and the Court.

Jaelle pulled herself from her thoughts, unsure of how long she had been drifting through memories of the past and worries of the day in her mind. She put the silver cup before her away, avoiding her own reflection in its shiny exterior, as if she were afraid that her own face would tell her something she was trying not to hear. That the girl might be in trouble. Jaelle put it out of her mind as she put the chalice out of view, and turned her attention to a tapestry which lay next to her. Her calloused hands threaded a needle of rich purple and she began to pull it through the silken fabric carefully.

The evening passed into night, and her eyes grew heavy as the rush light grew fainter, more of the rush burning away as she had sewn. Unable to keep her eyelids open much longer, she had delicately placed the tapestry back on the cushion next to her and was steadying herself to retire to the pile of cushions and quilts where she slept. As her hand pushed against the table top, she stopped suddenly. A draft had swept towards her from the door to the caravan, which lay just over her shoulder. She turned her heads towards it, slowly allowing her hips to follow.

"What are you doing here?" She had asked before she had even seen Clopin's silhouette in the doorway. There was something in her that just knew it was the brim of his hat which shadowed the entrance to her home late that night. The dim light of her candle flickered across the old wood of her caravan floor, and he stayed in the darkness just outside.

Clopin hesitated a response, before calmly instructing, "Come with me." Something heavy hung in his throat and in an instant Jaelle was more concerned than ever. Her eyes widened in the darkness, everything between them unspoken. But in an attempt to keep control of her heart, which now raced in her chest, she swallowed.  
"Very well." was her response.

Moving swiftly, yards ahead of her, Clopin did not wait for Jaelle to catch up. Even at this late hour in the night, he could not risk being seen. Jaelle's distance meant he could take the route which afforded him the most cover and safety, leaving Jaelle to walk slowly on a different path. He did not have to tell her where to go, she had known. The same way she had known so many things before. Her reaction was unsettling to Clopin, and on his quiet route, basked in darkness, he tried not to think about the old woman's voice, full of knowing and concern.

Jaelle walked steadily in the direction towards the girl's tent at the far edge of the court, her walking stick awkwardly hitting the ground as she moved in the darkness, the dying rush light from her caravan stretched out in her other shaking hand in front of her. All of the feelings, and thoughts that had begun to flow through her mind, she kept pushed aside, repeating to herself that she was wrong.

But she had never been wrong when she wanted to be.

Eventually, she found herself at the clearing, and the small tent pressed against the back of the tall stone wall that lay at the perimeter of the court of miracles. Jaelle continued towards the tent, eyeing the dark pile of plates and scrap food from the side, and trying to ignore the tension that was growing with every step she took towards it. A slit lay open in the tent's door, like a small toothless grin, making her more and more uneasy. Finally at it's entrance, she almost heard voices whispering in the darkness, telling her to go away. She looked down to the ground, and saw the iron chain from the girl's shackle snaking its way into the dark tent that lay in front of her, following it into the unknown with her eyes. She took a breath and after a pause, she stepped forward into the tent, the shaking light of the rush candle illuminating the hay where Victoria lay, her back turned to her.

"Girl!" She whispered harshly. Jaelle then held her breath and waited for a sign from the figure on the mattress. There was no response, but her heart skipped a beat as she saw a steady, deep, rise and fall of the girls chest. Had she seen it? Very slowly, Jaelle placed the candle on the ground and got to her knees to approach her. She reached a hand out and placed it on the girl's shoulder. Her heart once again skipped a relieved beat when she felt the warmth of her skin under her dress. But it was too warm- almost burning hot to the touch, and soaking wet with sweat. Jaelle carefully turned the girl to face her.

Victoria's face was pale white, almost glowing in the darkness, like a sickly lantern. Sweat pooled from her forehead, and yet her lips were chapped and dry. Her breath was steady, but much too slow, and came out almost like a wheeze. She looked like a corpse, like someone who had died, but was not allowed to leave their body. Jaelle was no stranger to death, but the smell of sickness, of sadness, of the curse that had overtaken the young girl caused everything inside of her to freeze, stiffened with distress.

Jaelle felt Clopin standing behind her. She frowned, but did not turn to him.  
"What did you do to her?" she asked in a low whisper. Clopin did not respond, but she heard as his hand, wrapped in his leather glove, tense into a fist.

Jaelle watched as Victoria's face twisted a little into a wince, and she followed her arm with her eyes to where the girl's hand rested under the quilt. To get a better look, she pulled the quilt back and found both hands clenching her dress at her lower stomach. Jaelle first removed the hand covered with bandages and brought it closer to her face, inspecting it. The dark purple that had once pooled under her fingernails was beginning to fade, and though the bones set in their place- clenched and bent at strange angles- it did not look like it had been getting worse. The two of them watched the girl silently as she fought for her life.

Clopin kept looking away as Jaelle searched the girl for injuries. It was difficult to look at her for too long- she lay there, in another world all together. Though her face strained and her body was working to keep her in this world, the world where he stood quietly, fighting back the demons of his own, he had never seen her so helpless. Her expressions were pained, and afraid, in ways they hadn't been even in the dungeons of the Palace of Justice. As Jaelle continued down her body, he caught himself staring at the curves of her shoulders and hips. They glistened in the candle light, beads of sweat disguising them as something magical, and not like the flesh of a dying girl.

Jaelle ran her hands gently over Victoria's lower stomach, and her hands jumped back. Clopin leaned forward in the entrance.

"What is it?" His whisper came from over her shoulder. The old woman placed her hands back on the girl, unsure of what she had felt herself. She moved her fingers back and forth over the space between her hip bones, that lead to her pubis. Hard bumps lined each crevasse. It was from her fever. Jaelle had seen this before, but not with such severity. She moved her hands up to the girl's throat and carefully touched each side with her forefinger and thumb- the same swelling was here, too. As she removed her hands, Victoria tried to swallow and frowned in pain, moaning slightly.

Clopin once again looked away, her moan painfully reminding him of when he had been in Jaelle's place; his hands running over her, their mouths sharing one breath. Victoria's right leg shook slightly, and tried to pull itself to rest on its foot. Jaelle kept it down firmly, and her eyes shifted to the shackle around the sick girl's ankle. Quickly she leaned forward, now taking the bare calf in her hands as though it were a newborn. Intently, Jaelle frowned at the device, looking as though she were peering down through its vicious iron grasp around Victoria's delicate, pale ankle. Jaelle placed her nose close to it and inhaled slightly, and then peeled back suddenly in alarm.

"Well?" Clopin asked aggressively, suddenly impatient. Jaelle stared at the shackle.  
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked. Clopin frowned deeply.  
"What's the matter with her?!" He exclaimed.  
"What did you do?"  
"Tell me, woman!" His voice grew low and defensive. Jaelle's eyes narrowed in response.  
"Tell me first, why did you bring her here?"

In the darkness, Clopin's eyes darted away from the old woman.  
"She must come with me." Jaelle had said solemnly. Clopin shook his head in the doorway to the tent.  
"She can not." he had said, his fist tightening. Jaelle then turned to him.  
"The girl has a sickness from her ankle, it is rotting here, and has spread to her body."

Jaelle's words spun through his mind, a sudden whirlwind of thoughts and feelings. He was shaking his head sternly without even noticing at first. Jaelle had sighed heavily.

"She can not leave." He said again. "Our Gitanos brothers will-"  
"You should have left her!" Jaelle interrupted, staring up at him, her eyes ablaze with frustration.  
"You don't understand..." Clopin stared at the ground. His mind was moving like a scale, tipping to each side and then back again as thoughts piled up on either end.

"Then tell me why! She was as good as dead, and would have suffered a shorter fate than to be humiliated, locked up in a dirty tent by-"  
"No. Frollo would not have her, she traded in her life to save mine. She belongs to me."

Jaelle rose to her feet so quickly, Clopin stepped back a bit in surprise, his eyes now wide as Jaelle's long finger pointed in his face.  
"You..." now it was her voice which crackled into a low growl in the dim light of the tent as it closed in around all three of them. "You selfish, foolish man." Clopin's eyes fell to the ground, almost ashamed.

"This was the only way you could see her again, is that it? Well look at her now, look at what you have done." Jaelle's arm stretched out behind her, and Clopin averted his eyes from the glistening beads of sweat falling down from the face of the girl who lay on the straw mattress. "Some repayment to the one who returned your life to you."

A heavy moment of silence hung between the two of them, until Victoria shuddered, a wispy breath leaving her trembling lips. Clopin took a deep breath.  
"It was the only way... that I knew she would be safe." His voice was so small, it passed by Jaelle like a shadow.

The words hit her heart on a strange angle, she was unsure what they meant. Jaelle had known the man all of his life, and had never seen him talk about women. She had grown resentful that he had been keeping the girl like a prisoner. Victoria was all alone in the world, she didn't have the Romany people. The fact that she had survived this long had proven that life was a fight within her, and now it could all be taken from her, there in a dark tent, by a man who could never admit that he loved her. Jaelle realized she had been silent, her heavy eyes circling the features of his face. She clucked in return.

"If she does not leave here, she will die." She sternly responded. Clopin's eyes darted back up to meet hers.  
"But they will kill her!" He whispered.  
"Well, she is yours now, isn't she? You will have to protect her."

A silence took them both once more. Jaelle's eyes stayed on the Romany king, the candle light moving in their dark irises, like grains of sand slipping through the hour glass reminding him that they were losing time for the girl's life. "Clop-" Jaelle had begun to cry out his name, but he silenced her by quickly bending to one knee and producing a ring of iron keys from inside his tunic.

Jaelle side eyed them- this whole time they had been there. Clopin hesitated as he caught her eyes. Between them they shared a moment of knowing; that this action could have many different ramifications. Clopin slid the key into the shackle and turned it forcefully, it groaned in place, and the girl shuddered under its movement. As the heavy iron cracked open, the two hinges separating to reveal the girl's ankle and both Clopin and Jaelle pulled away from the sight that had laid hidden underneath.

The wound was large, red and angry. Along the bone of her ankle, the iron had rubbed down so far that some substance oozed from inside, and the meat of her muscle seemed visible. It appeared as though scabs had formed, been ripped off, and reformed, creating a constellation of different tones, degrees of healed injury. Red lines spread out from the center of it like a spiders web. They had just reached the edge of the shackle, but dared to continue up her leg. Clopin's chest tightened as the girl's heaved, basked in candle light. Her dry lips parted in a slight gasp.  
"Clopin..." she said his name, dreamily.

Jaelle turned back to Clopin once again, frowning at him. He avoided her stare by reaching forward and pulling one of the girl's arms around the back of his neck. As he pushed his arms underneath her upper back and legs, he spoke to Jaelle from over his shoulder.

"Take the path that runs through the center of the court, if you run into anyone, distract them." He ordered. Jaelle said nothing in response, but used her walking stick to steady herself as she moved slowly towards the door. She positioned herself at the front of the tent, as Clopin stood up, Victoria draped over his arms. Over her shoulder, Jaelle spoke to Clopin.

"Whatever you have done, after tonight it is finished." She told her King, who seemed to her more like any other man tonight, and now it was Clopin who fell silent in response. Jaelle left the tent and moved as briskly as she could- sensing Clopin move to the far wall of the great hall.

In the darkness, Clopin could just barely make out the features of the girl's face. He strained under her weight, as she lay flickering in unconsciousness, occasionally letting out a sigh or a moan. Her stomach would then gurgle- either from hunger, or from pain, as the infection fell through her. The path was awkward to walk without the weight of a full grown woman on your arms, and very quickly Clopin's body began to ache. Every so often he would look down and swear her eyes were open, staring up at him, but then he would look again and they would be closed and pursed in pain. Sweat pooled under his forearms and across his back and shoulders, his arms and legs tensing with each step.

Finally he had made it to Jaelle's caravan. A light was burning inside. Clopin glanced around before emerging onto the entrance leading to the wooden steps at the mouth of it, to ensure that nobody was watching. As he did so, he took one last look at the girl's face, his eyes hungrily searching her expression for a sign of life, of recognition. Clopin knew all too well that this would be one of the last times he could ever be this close to her, especially if she were to survive. But her face was tense with pain and fever, still distant and unfamiliar. And so, Clopin took the first step up the small ladder to meet Jaelle.

He crossed the caravan and lay Victoria down on a pile of hay stuffed cushions and furs that she had readied. Sliding his arms out from under her body, the lack of her warmth and weight caused them to feel cold and light in an unpleasant way. With the small amount of light from inside Jaelle's home, Clopin took what felt like his truly last opportunity to look upon the young girl, laying down now, waif-like and exhausted. He clenched his jaw, and stood up. Jaelle knelt behind him, eyes watching him fiercely.

"Tell me what happens... If she survives I will figure out what to do." He told her. She nodded, slightly, but the look of disappointment and concern stayed in each line of her face. Shame stirred quietly, with heat, in Clopin, and he moved quickly to put it out, leaving the caravan without looking back, feeling Jaelle's eyes on his neck. 

Jaelle watched him go. When he was gone from the opening to the caravan, she dipped a long piece of cloth into a washbasin that she had filled. She wrung it out before laying it slowly on top of the girl's head. Victoria sighed, the muscles of her face relaxing a bit with the cool water now in place. It was to be a long night.


	21. To Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like a spell

The dream in which I clawed my way towards an ominous clearing in a dark wood continued, like a spell that could not be broken, for what felt like an entire lifetime. Each time, I would make it to the clearing and the skull would look up from the bleeding deer calf and the flames in its eyes would roar. Fear gripped my heart as my bloodied feet froze in place. A tree root, wrapped around my ankle was pulling me back towards the darkness of the forest, and then something would call my name. As I turned around to the black of the tree canopy, a heat would grow so hot on the side of my face, it felt as though I was engulfed in flames and they were licking at my cheek. Then all would be black, silent, for another eternity until the dream began again. I was unsure how long it continued, this vicious cycle, in which every time I felt the fear and the pain it was with the same intensity as though it had all been new.

And then, for an instant, while feeling my way through the dark, I had felt my body, pressed against the uncomfortable hay mattress. I had smelled the musky inside of the tent, and I sensed the presence of others. I wasn't sure who they were, or if they could even see me, and I was unable to move or speak. When I was pulled back under, I felt my way through the dark once more, only now I could make out a light at the end of the seemingly expansive space I was in- a crescent moon shaped glow. I drew nearer and nearer to it, until it came into view. It was a large fire place, made of brick and stone. The fire roared in it, masking the outside of its stone mouth. Nearing it, windows appeared to my right, hanging in the black curtains of the nothingness that surrounded me. Outside them the Paris skyline was washed with light pinks and blues of a sunset, stars beginning to poke through the dreamy canvas of evening sky. It made me feel safe, and certain. But the roaring fire turned my attention, filling me with fear, as it seemed to be burning on dread itself. I stood in front of it for a moment, and in the dream, the fire was so real I felt as my skin turned hot. I watched the flames swirl around themselves as though it were happening right in front of me.

Suddenly, an arm snaked itself around my stomach from behind me, and pulled me close. I could feel the tension in my body as the arm held me in place, and as I looked down, to my horror found Frollo's pale talon digging into my lower stomach. In the dream, I screamed and grasped his bony fingers, ripping them away as hard as I could, but I was being pushed closer to the flame. When I finally freed myself, I spun around, holding the arm in my grip and met the eyes of Clopin. I had been waiting for him, for so long, and finally he stood in front of me. Relief filled my heart and I whispered his name, guiding what had transformed into his lean, strong arms around my back. Clopin held me for a moment, and then his arms gripped my shoulders and he pulled me back to meet his eyes. The light from the fire cast shadows across his masked face, and his expression all at once looked like the cold stone of a Gargoyle. I searched his eyes, but all I found were reflections of my own hollow silhouette engulfed by the fire. His hand had found its way to my neck, and just when I realized, his fingers gripped my throat tightly. Smoke pooled from my lips, and I coughed under his grasp, my insides suddenly burning. Looking around I realized I was dangling into the flame, and Clopin held me there by my neck. A rush of heat rushed through me as I burst into flames, my hands helplessly clawing at his arm as he held me there, unwavering.

It was then that my eyes opened. My heart was beating fast. I was burning hot and freezing all at once, and felt like I had been thrown into a lake my skin felt so damp. At first I saw nothing but a dim light, and heard nothing coherent, still pulling myself from my dream. A shaking finger began to feel the texture of a straw cushion beneath its dulled tips. Then, the warm musty smell of earth, and bone, and dust. A shiver ran down my spine and I shuddered from it, waves of heat and cold rushing across my flesh. As my eyes began to clear, they settled on an object in some kind of room- a crate. Golden strings slipped from it's broken wooden sides. Below it, another crate, and below it the floor, covered in the skin of a black animal. I shook my head, confused. Turning my head to the side, I found a silver brush lying on the mattress next to me, and weakly drew it closer. My eyes began to focus on the object and I frowned at it, searching through my mind as smoke seemed to be clearing. I managed to hold it close to my face, and something shifted in my mind. Jaelle's face flashed into view. Jaelle. I had taken this brush for Jaelle, the last time I had seen her... before...

The palace... my big toe twitched in phantom pain, and I remembered more. I pulled the quilt from off of me in one corner, my muscles aching under the wet dress. The shackle had been removed and a bandage was wrapped around my ankle in its place. Exhausted, a dull ache beat in my chest as I thought about the shackle... but more, who it had belong to, who had held it at the other end. This caused my stomach to turn. What had happened? Looking around, more had begun to come back to me. I must have been in Jaelle's home... but how did I end up here? I remembered very little after... Clopin had been in my tent... but did recall the pain, and wanting to cry out for help, but feeling entirely alone.

Clopin came back to my mind, but I was still weary, even dizzy, and so I closed my eyes again and let him disappear. The chills of fever were running up and down my spine, and my muscles still twitched uncomfortably followed by a sore ache. Swallowing was painful, it felt like I had been choked, the sides of my throat throbbed as I turned my head to the other side of the cushion. Feeling safe for the first time in a very long while, I allowed myself to fall back into sleep.

When I awoke again, the caravan was dark, lit only by a light at the far end. I turned to see Jaelle's tired face as it slept on the other side of the caravan. But my eyes were only open for a moment, they closed heavily and guided me to sleep once more. This begun to happen more and more frequently. My eyes would open, and the caravan would be basked in light, but I was unsure what time of the day it would be, and then what felt like moments later, my eyes would open and the caravan would be dark again. Sometimes, Jaelle would be nearby, and would bring water to my lips in a cup, helping me drink or eat, but if she had spoken a single word to me, I did not remember. Sometimes I would awake and find myself alone. Each time, it felt as though the heat was passing more and more, like a season changing day after day.

One day, I opened my eyes to the caravan in early morning. The air felt different and so did my mind, my skin and my muscles. Though there was a slight fog in my head, I no longer felt the burning fever from the days and nights before. Also gone was the feeling of being held down- pulled back into sleep. I was able to hold my hands onto my stomach and look at them, focus on each finger and move them with ease. Finally, I was able to swallow without cringing from pain as I felt my spit slide down effortlessly. This day felt very different. I pulled the quilt off of my legs and shifted my weight to be sitting up, my knees bending awkwardly, a slight pain creeping up from my ankle. But it was not enough to keep me from placing my feet on the cool caravan floor and using my legs and arms to slowly push myself up. The floorboards threatened to creak beneath my feet as my legs shook. I had to use a small table pulled up close to the pile of cushions I had been sleeping on, but eventually I made it to my feet. My muscles ached like they had not been used in a very long time, and I struggled to fight off exhaustion just from standing up.

Then the door to the caravan opened suddenly, and Jaelle stood in its frame holding a pile of firewood. Her eyes widened, and something in their dark centers lit up, but she seemed to quickly move past it, perhaps out of embarrassment.  
"Well! It looks like the devil lost a bet." Her voice crackled warmly, which I found very comforting.  
"Jaelle... what happene-" Jaelle interrupted me with a sharp exhale sound. She dropped the wood into a pile in the corner and waved her hands in front of her nose dramatically.

"Whew! Child, there is no time to explain. The smell of death is all over you."

I frowned and pulled my damp dress to my nose, inhaling slightly. It had smelled a bit musky- but considering I had been living, shackled in a tent pitched on the grounds of Paris' underground crypts, no more than one would expect. Before I could protest, Jaelle's warm and weathered hand grasped my arm firmly, but softly, and began guiding me to the door. I shuffled behind her as she limped just ahead of me, my limbs were still shaking as they were not used to walking yet, but Jaelle's grip steadied me for some reason, and deep inside of me there was something that wanted to move- to return to my life. Even in their weakened state, the weight lifted from where the iron had once been made them feel stronger than they had in a very long time. The absence of the shackle contributed to the awkward feeling of walking, like I was learning how to again, and maybe that was what Jaelle was trying to accomplish.

She lead me out of her home and we were standing in an open dirt area. In the far corner, chickens stirred in early morning. In the middle sat a stump for breaking down wood for fire, an axe just sticking out from the corner of its blade in a crevasse in the wood. Jaelle lead me to the back of the caravan- where a large wooden tub sat, a piece of cloth tied up around it. Jaelle pushed me towards it gently and I resisted, vaguely confused as to what was going on. "You want me to bathe?!" I exclaimed and Jaelle rolled her eyes.  
"Yes you stinky gadjianke. Get in." She pointed a twisted finger towards the tub. I touched my fingertip to the water and recoiled my hand.  
"Jaelle, it's freezing!"

Jaelle's eyes seemed to roll even further back and she sighed impatiently.  
"Yes, I've been waiting days for you to wake up to get the stench of death off of you. It can't be colder than being buried in a hole, covered in dirt! If you don't wash it off soon, you will never be rid of it!" Jaelle explained, her face animating every word and superstition. I frowned at her, unconvinced. "And besides, the cold shock is good for you, it will kill off any of those demons who have been following you around. That's how you got here, you know." She finished. I stood in weary disbelief, but she quickly leaned forward and untied the cloth. It fell down between the two of us, and I was alone in the small shack with the wooden wash tub. With no use arguing, I pulled my dress over my head. Perhaps it would be nice... I couldn't remember the last time I had bathed, but it had been long before coming back down here. I warily lifted my leg, wincing as the wound underneath my bandage throbbed a bit, and dipped it partially in the water. I gasped loudly.

"It's made of ice!" I repeated again, but I no longer saw Jaelle's feet under from under the cloth.

I clenched my jaw and put the rest of my leg in- the cold water quickly circled my leg and I whimpered.  
"Best to do it quickly!" Jaelle's voice came distantly from the other side of the caravan as she sprinkled feed for her hens. Groaning, I picked up my other leg and carefully pulled myself into the cold water. It took the breath out of me for a moment- my skin a field of chills, but Jaelle was right, it did feel kind of nice. A bar of soap hung on an iron nail above me and I unhooked it from its rope and smelled it. It was unlike soap we used in England, or what I had seen in France. It smelled of oil and flower petals. Pleasantly surprised, I began to scrub at my skin gently, avoiding many bruises and wounds. Although I was alone, I kept my arm folded over my chest, uncomfortable at the bathing circumstances. I wasn't sure where I was in the Court, or if I was even truly in Jaelle's home, and it made me uneasy. I tried to be quick and scrub the fine smelling soap on as much as possible, finally standing up and reaching over to hook the soap back up. As I did so the cloth parted and Jaelle eyed me suspiciously.

"Can I get out now?" I shivered, and Jaelle's eyes narrowed.  
"Wash your head first- go under." She commanded. I grunted but obliged, keeping my eyes shut tightly, I held a breath and brought myself down into the tub. The cool water rushed over my head, lifting my hair into delicate strands which floated around me. I felt strong hands scratching at the top of it, and I raised my arms out of the tub to bat away at Jaelle, who was rubbing soap into my hair. A pitcher of water dunked beneath the surface, pulling water with it, which then cascaded down my head. I pulled up out of the tub with a gasp to see Jaelle standing, holding the pitcher in front of me, smiling.

"Are you enjoying this?" I said, a small smile coming to my own lips. I flicked water on her and her eyes widened, flames dancing within them.  
"You can come out now." She said, placing a colourful blanket on the egde of the tub. Scrambling out, I had to delicately avoid scraping my legs on its worn wooden sides. I shivered as I wrapped the blanket around myself, twisting my hair out onto the ground beneath me. Jaelle then appeared with a folded stack of clothing, but as she handed it to me her face straightened out and I heard the sound of footsteps coming from the path that ran along the side of her caravan.  
"Jaelle, wh-" She shushed me suddenly and turned to the cloth that hung in front of the tub.  
"Stay here!" Jaelle instructed in a sharp whisper and lowered the cloth divider once again. I looked to the pile of clothing in my hands, confused. But then I heard Jaelle's voice.

"Yes, she has. She sleeps now, but she will be standing any day."  
"When she does, she is not to leave your caravan. I hope I have made myself clear." Clopin's voice responded. My breath left me once again, my heart beating loudly as I heard his voice.  
"Nonsense. The girl will help me, she will be my servant. I'm not to keep a young woman locked inside while I can barely move, Harmon won't be back for another fortnight." Jaelle argued and Clopin sighed.

There was silence for a moment. I carefully reached out and pulled back the cloth to reveal a sliver of the world outside, seeing only the top of Clopin's head, eclipsed by the back of Jaelle from where I had stood. Still the sight of any part of him caused me to feel unsteady and I quickly let go of the cloth, remaining motionless and hoping he hadn't seen me.  
"Fine! But she will remain out of my sight, do you understand?" He responded. Jaelle was silent, and Clopin's words twisted in my stomach.  
"As you wish." Jaelle said sternly after a moment. The sounds of feet against earth disappeared back up towards the path, and I realized I had been holding my breath.

I frowned into the dim light of where I stood, still holding the clothing in my hands. He had known I was there? Jaelle pulled the cloth back, a look of frustration and deep concern now possessed her. She took the stack of clothing from my hands and shook out a linen under dress, placing it over my head. My arms found each of the sleeves and she pulled it down over me, the two of us standing silently. I wanted her to tell me what had happened, and to ask about him, and what was going to happen to me now. But I knew from the look on Jaelle's face that any questioning would frustrate her further, and from experience that she wouldn't have answered me anyway.

The dress was loose on me, Jaelle had placed a tunic ontop and I was fastening the front, tightening the bodice and the sleeves. It was the first time in a long while that I had been fully dressed, and having bathed as well made me feel almost like I had months and months before, when my life had still been my own. It was something small that I hadn't appreciated back then, which now I realized had been a comfort to me. Jaelle clucked and pulled at the loose fabric that hung around my arms.  
"Now we'll have to try and keep some meat on you." she said quietly, almost to herself. I smiled slightly and nodded, my stomach gurgling happily at the thought of a meal.

After eating hot, full, food, the first I had tasted in ages, I found myself wrapped in a quilt, sleepily watching Jaelle quietly pulling dark purple thread through a silken tapestry that sat draped over her lap. The feeling of safety and comfort washed over me and I fell asleep, a peaceful rest taking me in its warm embrace.


	22. Une Morte Facile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one who laughs and a task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey this one is long because ~drama! Hope you enjoy when you get a chance!**

Not long after the day I had awoken, a group of Spanish Romany- called Gitanos, Jaelle had told me, arrived in the Court. From the worn dirt path where Jaelle's caravan sat, I had seen across the tops of tents a wagon painted dark yellow being pulled through the rows of burlap homes and wooden caravans like Jaelle's. Children's laughter followed the precession to the center- where the large platform which gave the Court its name stood. If I stood on the top step of the small ladder that went to the caravan's door, I could see some of the people. Their faces were more tanned than the Romany who lived in the court, and their eyes seemed to sparkle green even from a distance. Their clothes were also slightly different- rich hues of blue, green and red, and everyone was draped in golden chains and beads. I had seen Romany girls dressed like that in the market before, dancing for coins in front of men who played strange instruments. But since my time in the court, I hadn't seen many girls at all. Save for Jaelle and Rhoda.

Leaning against the intricately carved door frame of Jaelle's home, I glanced down at my own dress. The drab dark grey stared back at me, sleepily. I wondered what it would be like to be dressed as they were, they looked like a bouquet of flowers, moving in the breeze from over the tops of the tents. I wondered what it was like where they were from.

Those days were spent helping Jaelle with a variety of tasks. Once a week I met with a small, silent man who seemed to live in the city above the Court, the one I kept forgetting I had once lived in. With Harmon gone, and dangers above for Romany since our escape from the Palace of Justice, the man who I met with was someone who could move between both worlds in Jaelle's place. I tried to make conversation a few times that I met with him, but I had become unsure if he spoke English, or French for that matter.

I would exchange the contents of Jaelle's home for food, and sometimes more goods- which I had gathered were still being brought to Jaelle from girls in the city like I had done for her. Each morning, I'd heat Jaelle's water, chopping wood and retrieving buckets from a well nearby to her caravan, and check for eggs from her hens. I would then join her inside and help in sifting through the crates of objects that filled her home, until the evening drew near, and then I would help as she prepared food, and sit still as she stretched out the long silken tapestry across both of our laps. As the light burned low in the caravan, I would drift off to sleep with the strange spices from her vast collection of herbs and plants, which she boiled into water to drink, still on my lips.

Although each time I thought of Clopin and where in the Court he might be, or those two late nights in which I had been consumed by whatever the insatiable force it was that lay between us would cause my chest to ache, I did not ask Jaelle what had happened. Something told me that she had known what we had done, and that it had made her cross. I would then remember his words- that I was to stay out of his sight. Although I could now move freely through the Court, staying out of his sight was something I found I could do quite easily. It was uncomfortable to walk through the many paths that made up the underground neighbourhood without Jaelle, I had learned quickly. People would stop and watch me walk past, until it felt like the entire village was at my back. Noting the paths and time of day that would leave the least amount of interaction, I managed to complete most tasks for Jaelle by avoiding the crowded parts of the Court.

With Clopin completely out of sight, I felt his presence everywhere. In the evening, when I would leave out chicken feed, or even walking alone down a path in the afternoon. Even when I could see no one, I sensed that he was nearby. Was it just a longing? A distance that I wished to fill? I kept these thoughts out of my mind as much as possible, like shooting arrows into a stag. In my mind, I watched it lay there, and with every twitch or breath of life I would fire another.

Otherwise the days were small and uneventful, which I had come to appreciate, but buried in the back of my mind was an unease from having been stuck there, unwanted for far too long. And a restlessness about it I had grown to resent.

That was until, one day, just after noon, I had carried up a stack of chopped wood and placed it outside of the caravan. A splinter snagged my skin as I had dropped the wood and I winced, looking down at my hand as blood pooled around the piece of wood. I pulled out the larger bit and placed my finger to my mouth, sucking at a tiny shard that I was unable to grasp with my fingers. My other hand had been wrapped in a clean bandage since I had awoken in Jaelle's care, and I realized it had been far too long since I had actually seen it. Carefully I untied the bandage and began to unravel it. The bandage, now grey, with dirt and dust, broke into layers in my opposite hand. But as my fingers began to become visible, I stopped suddenly and twisted the hand around to see it.

The skin beneath was paler, untouched by the work I had been doing for Jaelle, and most of the unpleasant coloring from the injury in the Palace dungeon had since left it, except for a dark crimson that sat around each knuckle. Yet, my bones themselves were still damaged, I noted, turning it over again. They sat bent, and even as I tried to straighten them, did not move. As I tried, sharp pain shot through my arm as they were now locked in place. My frown deepened as I faced what had become of it, and I quickly wound the bandage back around it, finding its sight unbearable.

Suddenly I noticed Jaelle standing at the door to the caravan, her eyes over my shoulder. I whipped around, startled, and laughed at myself.  
"How are you so quiet and yet so loud?" I said in a breath. Jaelle's eyed me up and down as she always did, suspiciously.  
"Come inside I have a task for you." she said.

I followed Jaelle into the caravan, she slowly made her way to the large table in the middle. The table had been cleared of its usual piles of silver and coins, and in their place sat a wooden box. She placed her hand on it, the quiet sound of her skin against its worn, old top made my ears tingle pleasantly.

"You are to take this to a woman by the Court." a heaviness filled her voice, like dark clouds in a morning sky. "Her name is Vadoma, she is a gitana." she explained, noting that this woman would be in a different area, closer to the Court where the Spanish Romany had set up camp. I stood silently, awaiting more instruction. Jaelle slid the box closer to me on the table, her eyes fell hard to read. Approaching it, a hand cautiously outstretched, Jaelle stopped me.  
"Tonight. Let nobody see you." I pulled my hand back.  
"Why not just take it yourself?"  
"No. It is not mine to give." She said, cryptically, and I frowned at her.  
"How will I know who Vadoma is?"  
Jaelle tried to hide a quiet sigh, her eyes moving to the corner.  
"She will be the one awake, who is still laughing. I'm sure you will know." Jaelle said. My frown deepened and I looked away as well, slightly frustrated.  
"Does she know that I'm coming?" Jaelle shook her head slightly.  
"Very well..." Turning sharply to me, Jaelle pointed a long finger.  
"She will try to give it away. Do not let her. This is for her." She tapped her finger on its lid, making eye contact to ensure that I understood. I nodded, but wasn't sure that I did. Jaelle then moved away from the table, and resumed what she had been doing before calling me in, leaving me puzzled.

Still uncertain as to what I had agreed to do, I waited until after supper, when all the lights in every tent and wagon fell low, and Jaelle had fallen asleep with her tapestry set on her lap. I had pulled my cloak across my shoulders and raised my hood in order to further blend into the darkness. Then I grabbed a rush, and lit it off of the one that burned on the table inside of the caravan, placing it into a lantern to protect it. The light glowed dimly, but it would suffice in navigating the paths that wound through the tents and towards the center, where the Court itself sat. I pulled the wooden box off of the table and wrapped it in my apron, which I tucked into the waist of my tunic.

Cautiously I began to walk down the winding path, trying to plan my route by which ones went past the backs of tents instead of the front, or around animal pens instead of a wagon. The Court felt eerily still, even for the hour that it was. Heavy breaths of sleeping people were all I could hear. I had gotten used to the sensation of being watched- that presence I had felt, which I thought was knowing Clopin was somewhere near, but had grown to believe it was just the Court itself. Tonight, it felt especially strong. I looked over my shoulder many times into the darkness, feeling eyes burning into the back of my neck. It grew so intense that I instinctually would scratch at the nape of my neck, trying to stave off the feeling. But nothing was ever there, just my own dim shadow on the hard ground, following me through the rows of tents.

Eventually I found myself staring up at the high wooden platform, where I had been brought from the catacombs. The Romany people had offered me my life in exchange for helping them rescue their king. This was not the life I had agreed to, kept first on the end of a chain and now to the grounds surrounding a caravan that did not move. My eyes traced the beam from which they would hang rope, tied into nooses, and then down to the door built into the platform where feet would dangle. I envisioned my own feet there, twitching as life drained from them. An angry throbbing feeling ran through my heart as I thought about having been brought there. Some help I had ended up being. I had asked myself so many times before, if they could have gotten themselves into to the Palace without me anyway, why force me to go? Was it just a cruel act? A trick? Or perhaps justice for having him imprisoned? In spite of my efforts, my mind wandered far back to something Clopin had said, just before his hands were undressing me, roaming my skin.

"You're not going to die here."

I exhaled sharply. Maybe that was only option. I realized that I had been standing much closer now to the platform, my neck craned back eyeing the trap door hungrily. I stopped myself and spun around, the feeling of being watched closing in on me again. Once more, my shadow was the only response, and I remembered the impossible task of finding a woman named Vadoma I had been left with. I walked back, closer to the cluster of tents, cursing Jaelle. It felt dangerous to be out, late at night, alone, and if I were to be seen it would no doubt cause alarm. Trying to keep the lantern low, I held my breath and listened, but all that I heard was the deep breathing and occasional grunting of both people and the animals that they kept, and my own dull footsteps. After a few moments, frustration crept into my mind. Perhaps I could return tomorrow night, or bring Jaelle with me in the morning to show me who I was looking for, it felt like a trick in a fairy tale, to find a woman who-

Just then, a soft, but cutting sound filled my ear, quickly fading like smoke from a wick. I turned to the direction where it had come from and swiftly walked towards it, moving as quietly as possible. Slowing down, I kicked myself for having lost its trail, but then it came again, a little bit louder. The sound brought me just outside of a tent, buried beneath the rows of others, and I noticed that barely a flicker of candle made the burlap glow softly. I crouched down and got as near to it as I could, once again holding my breath and awaiting the sound. A deep, low voice spoke words I could not make out, and then the sound followed- a warm, feminine laugh. My eyes widened in the darkness. Jaelle had said she would be the one awake, still laughing. I stood up silently and took a deep breath, before swiftly passing into the entrance to the tent.

A woman lay propped on her side, elaborately decorated cushions holding her up as her long legs fell down the mattress, woven between a silken quilt. She raised her eyes as I entered the tent, but did not look surprised. The dim light of her candle met mine, illuminating her quarters. For a moment, I stood stunned. The woman had long dark hair that hung in soft waves along her face and down her shoulders. She lay wearing not very much at all, but a sheer robe, which was now open at the front, her dark hair curling around the bottom of her breasts, concealing them. The woman's face was long and delicate, large almond eyes gently blinking in between a strong brow. The color of her skin was unlike anything I had seen- dark brown, with almost a crimson dusted along her cheeks. As she stared up at me, my mind cleared of any response, reeling in itself, as she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Color rose to my cheeks as well, and a look of pride crossed in front of her pooling dark eyes.

"Yes?" she said finally, putting me out of my misery. Even her voice felt cool, and this single word slipped around me smoothly.  
"V-Vadoma?" I managed to respond. Her large eyelashes closed once, slowly, in response. My words failed me once again.  
"I was asked- sent to give-"  
"Are you two acquainted?" she interrupted, and I frowned at her, confused.  
"Who?" I responded, voice cracking a bit.

Something moved in the corner of the tent, causing my insides to jump a bit, I quickly turned my lantern towards it. A pair of legs sat on a crate in the corner, and as I turned they stood up. I held my lantern out, light falling on the face of Clopin. He stood in the tent, not wearing his mask, his hat tilted low in front of his face, holding a chalice. His eyes looked different- the flame that flickered with them was somehow, tonight, faded. When he saw me, his face fell, and he looked away quickly, taking a sip from his cup but saying nothing.

"I couldn't think of another reason why a gadjianke slave would not bow to a King." I turned back to her defensively, but her voice seemed more amused than it was biting.

My heart raced in my chest, and my hands had begun to shake as soon as I had seen his eyes fixed on mine. The words fell into my mind but did not make any sense. Bow? Slave? She meant- to Clopin? Next to the woman, a slender arm raised in its sleep and wrapped itself around her stomach. Vadoma pet at it, absently. Looking to the figure that now held her, I noticed a second body next to that one. Two women lay, topless, and fast asleep. I lowered the lantern with my shaking arm, completely unsure of what was going on.

A flash crossed Vadoma's eyes and as my frustration swelled inside of me, I composed myself and spoke.  
"Jaelle sent me here." I said, reaching inside of my apron and producing the wooden box. "This is for you." I stretched it out to her, but she didn't move, a look of absent curiosity turned to stone and fell from her eyes.  
"Jaelle..." the warm velvet of her voice had disappeared. As her face fell with it, I sensed that she noticed me catch it and quickly she composed herself as well, smiling slightly and turning to Clopin. "You must be confused, girl. That is meant for Clopin."

Clopin continued to stare at the ground, refusing to look at me, I glanced at him from the corner of my eyes, and turned back to Vadoma.  
"No, she meant it for you, Vadoma." This time, saying her name made me feel different, in more control. She threw off the woman's arm that lay draped over her and shot out of bed, standing now so close to me I could smell her skin.  
"Stop saying my name, gadijanke." Her voice crackled like a whip, and I felt its sting.

We stood like that for a moment, her eyes threatening to swallow mine with their darkness. Without looking away, I moved the latch on the wooden box, opening it. I hoped for some reason that it was cursed, and that opening it would swallow the Court whole, each and every soul. But as I did so, nothing happened save for the lid falling back onto my wrist. Vadoma broke the stare first and glanced down at the contents of the box.  
"Take it." My voice shook, with frustration and fear, but I swallowed it back and tried to appear in control.  
"This was your mother's." She said, an air of wonder filling her expression. "Clopin..." she turned to him. He stood in the corner, his arms folded, his eyes fixated on us. I had felt them, burrowing into the side of my face, but turning to see him assured me of his stare.

"What?" his voice was low, almost irritated.  
"She had given it to Jaelle, before she... passed." Her eyes flicked up to meet mine as she spoke to him. "But she must have meant for you to have it..." Vadoma turned to him. Clopin uncrossed his arms and began to walk towards us. There was an odd stagger in his step. "He's drunk", I thought to myself.

It made me more nervous than I had already been. But there was another thought in my mind... "She's lying", it told me. I took my eyes off of the two of them for a moment, to see what Jaelle had put me into this situation to deliver. A long necklace with a thick, silver chain coiled around the inside of the box, ending with a large amulet. Even in the darkness, it almost glowed scarlet red. As Clopin approached us, my heart beat faster until he was in front of me. Vadoma moved aside, watching him with enjoyment, as he took her place, standing in front of me. He reached his hand towards the box and I pulled away from him slightly, my eyes speaking to his as he looked up. That defiant look, the one that did not like to be denied, frowned in him and he reached forward again. I used my arm to close the box and awkwardly pulled it away.

This made Vadoma laugh. "What's the matter with you? You don't take what you want anymore?" she hissed in his ear and, his heavy eyes staring at me, he brushed her away.  
"Don't." I said quietly, staring back into his eyes, causing Vadoma to repeat her deep, throaty laugh. Clopin's eyes were still so hard to read, and flashed between angry and hurt.  
"Don't..." he took a step towards me and I stepped back "...deny me.." he said, taking another one. I took another step away from him and my feet hit something low to the ground, I stumbled and fell back, the sharp lantern cracking open on the earth with a loud crash in my ear.

I felt as a piece of it gracefully cut into my skin and winced. Then Clopin, still pursuing and now in moderate darkness, stumbled over what I had and fell forward on top of me. It took the breath out of me for an instant and as I groaned, to my surprise, Clopin laughed. Even in the confusion, I frowned, bewildered. I don't think I had ever truly heard him laugh before.

Vadoma found the scene particularly amusing and her laugh filled the tent, coating it with a cruelty. The small table which held her candle was beside my free hand, the one not being crushed by Clopin's slender torso. Clopin writhed on top of me as he drunkly tried to get himself to his feet, his breath reeking of wine. I pulled at a leg of the small table quickly and watched briefly as the top, with the candle, dropped to the ground. The tent fell into a pitch blackness, abruptly stopping Vadoma's laughter.

As Clopin lifted himself, I pushed him off of me, he was still chuckling to himself in the madness. Swiftly I lunged forward and grasped at Vadoma's leg, then clumsily pulled it out from under her. She hit the earth with a thud, and a sound of air being knocked from her insides. I stood up, now the only one in the tent on both of my legs.

I heard a faint dropping sound as blood dripped down my arm and landed on the ground. The two other women who had been in bed with Vadoma whispered to each other, I saw their silhouettes as they sat up in the darkness. Vadoma lay on her back and scrambled to a seat. I stood over her now and looked down at her, reaching a hand out to help her to her feet. She frowned miserably, but as her arm shot up to meet mine, I placed the cool pendant into her palm, letting the chain fall from my sleeve, slipping into hers. For an instant she was confused, and let it drop to her lap. I turned quickly, walking past Clopin who used one of the wooden beams of the tent to pull himself to his feet, and stood, his arm around it, holding his stomach.

"What?! No- Wait!" Vadoma said from the ground, but I walked through the front of the tent and swiftly up the path on the hill. A frustrated shriek sounded from behind me, causing me to smile just a bit. Then the whole interaction caught up to me, and tears began to stream down my face, a sob silently erupting from deep inside of me.

As soon as I could, I diverted from the main path and found myself walking blindly along the wall of the Court, sobbing to myself. Suddenly a hand grasped my arm and I was pushed back against the wall. Through my tears and the dark, I saw Clopin's face staring back at me, the hazy drunken look still in his eyes. How had I not heard him? I leaned my head back and sighed, my crying shaking as I did so.

"I told that woman... to keep you out of my sight..." he said, his glossy eyes searching the dark for me. I took a deep breath, but did not move.  
"Then look away." I responded, coldly. He placed a hand against the wall beside my head, blocking my path, and leaned forward.

As he got closer and I smelled the wine on his breath once again, I pushed his arm away and went to walk away. With ease, he grasped onto the collar of my dress and pulled me back. I groaned and shifted, now grabbing onto his collar with both hands. His hand stayed on me as I turned on him, using my weight and his inebriated state against him to pin him now to the wall. Now, I stood, holding him in place, just like so many men had done to me before, like he had done to me himself. Rage was coursing through me, and filled me with the strength to hold him there, but as I did so, his grasp relaxed, and so did his muscles.

"What do you want?!" I asked him, almost yelling, our noses nearly touching in the darkness.

He was too drunk to try and place his hand over my mouth, or to shush me, but his hand founds its way to my backside and tried to pull me closer. I let go of him and ripped his arm away from me, turning again to leave.

"I saved your life- twice now..." he muttered. I stopped and turned sharply.  
"What?" I hissed.  
"You were infected...and a fever.. I brought you to her..." He tilted his head back slowly. I stood there staring at his silhouette in the darkness. That's how I got to Jaelle's. My ankle throbbed under its bandage, and I tried to ignore the stinging that the shard of glass in my arm now sent through my shoulder.

"An infection?" I asked, anger filling me once again. "From _your_ shackle? The one I begged you to remove?" The silence between us swallowed my words whole, but I couldn't stop myself. "How did you even find me, you never came back, you stopped everyone from coming back." My voice grew louder and shakier, the now dry tears on my cheeks were being covered by long wet ones.  
"I.. told you I couldn't have-" he sloppily began. His futile attempts to appeal to me had caused me to shake from rage, so I summoned my strength to grip his collar once more and lean forward, catching his eye.  
"You do not own me, I am not your property." I tried to keep my voice stern, but it was cracking with the tears that filled my voice.

In spite of what I told him, gripping him in the darkness that night, the sadness in me pooled from a struggle that had continued since I had found myself there in the first place: some part of me wanted to be his property. Wanted him to own me, to keep me as his, somehow. The fantasy had been clinging to the edge of my mind, all this time. Myself and the Gypsy King. Kept in his quarters, a private servant, he would have to do so little and I would still be all his. But when he disappeared, when he had silenced each pleasurable moan with his hand, when I heard him instruct Jaelle to keep me out of his sight, and had kept the iron clamped over my ankle even as it almost killed me, I knew I was not his, and I knew I could never be. Clopin was just another man who wanted what he couldn't have... until he could... and then...

He grasped the back of my head and pulled his mouth onto mine. My defenses collapsed for a moment, and he swiftly reversed our positions so that he was now on top of me once again. He held both sides of my face, and his tongue pushed its way into my mouth. Heat was growing inside of me, and in the space between our torsos. But, no matter how good it felt, my stomach tightened as it twisted itself into knots. I pulled my face away from his, turning away from him.  
"Stop." I said quietly. He grabbed my chin and tried to turn my face back, but I ripped away from it and began to push myself out from underneath his frame. He leaned against the wall, staying there for a moment, hanging over where I had just been.

"Mine is not your life to save. If you had any man in you at all, you would have let me die, or let me go."

He exhaled deeply, almost a groan in response.

"Stay away from me." I said finally, turning to leave.

As I walked briskly down the path, I passed Vadoma. She stood almost like she was a torch, blazing in the darkness. I noticed she held in one hand the amulet from the necklace I had given her, and then realized she may have been there the whole time, seen the whole thing. But I didn't care anymore. I just needed to be away from them. It was then that I truly wished I hadn't survived- the Palace, the fever. My mind fell back to the trap door of the gallows. Maybe there had always been another way to escape.


	23. Svatura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romany Stories and the Puri Daj

Returning to Jaelle's caravan that night after running into Clopin, I stopped by the well near her home and shakily raised a small amount of water in the old wooden bucket. First I dipped my hands in and brought its contents to my face, as the water splashed across my tear-stained cheeks it cooled them down. They had been running hot, as upset and frustration and fear had all risen in me strongly from the fight, from my encounter with Clopin, and then seeing Vadoma watching us as I left quickly.

Next I squinted at the back of my arm in the darkness, feeling carefully for the wound which had been hurting me. As I ran my fingers over it, I felt the jagged edge of a chunk of glass and winced as the slight touch sent shocks of pain through my shoulder. I was so tired of being hurt, I thought to myself. Pulling the shard out of my arm took two tries, the sting radiated intensely across my skin. Finally holding it in my hand, it looked so much smaller than I had imagined. I gripped it with my thumb and forefinger, turning it over before throwing it across the well and into the earth. Tears found their way to my eyes, and exhausted, I let them fall down my cheeks, my hands resting on the cold stone of the old well, my hair flowing towards its pitch black center. After a moment I took a breath, and used some water from the bucket to clean off my arm, inspecting the small wound, assessing that it would need a bandage. Then I looked to my dress and found blood stains cascading down the dirty white linen of my under dress, and slightly staining the dark grey of my tunic.

Quietly shutting the latch of Jaelle's caravan door, I slipped out of the tunic, covering it slightly under the quilt. As I lay awake on the pile of cushions, I tossed and turned for what felt like many long nights, until I heard the sounds of morning outside the caravan doors. I sat up and quickly gathered the tunic, pulling on my boots and heading outside. Washing blood out of my clothes would be difficult, but I didn't want to tell Jaelle about the night before. First I reached into the fire pit that lay outside of Jaelle's home and gathered a handful of ash. I brought a bucket of water back from the well and poured it over the bottom of the dress, laying it on the stone in the backyard which Jaelle used for laundry. I scrubbed the potash into the dress, its wet, now dark grey exterior slapping on the stone. Repeating the process of covering the stains with ash, rubbing them onto the stone and then washing it out took some time, but as the village bloomed into morning, I had gotten it light enough.

By the time Jaelle had awoken, I was chopping wood as usual. I saw her from the corner of my eye open the door to the caravan, standing in it and staring at me as I placed another log onto the cutting block and aggressively brought the dull axe onto the edge of it. When it split in two, I picked one up and replaced the log, bringing the axe down again and watching it splinter. Jaelle carefully stepped down from the caravan's door and walked towards me but I kept my eyes fixed on the edge of the axe.  
"Child?" Her voice came from beside me, with a twinge of concern. Another log split in half, sending two pieces flying in opposite directions.  
"Yes?" I grunted, picking up the larger side and placing it back on the block. Jaelle's eyes glanced behind me and after splitting the log in half, I stopped and followed her eyes. The stack of firewood now was twice the size of what I normally had cut in the mornings, and we watched as a log rolled down from the top of it, stopping on the ground below. Beads of sweat dripped down my face and I panted, leaning on the handle of the axe.  
"Did you deliver-"  
"Yes." I said sharply, grabbing the axe and swinging one final time to place the edge of it back onto the chopping block. I felt as Jaelle eyed my arm, which now wore a bandage, and down to the still damp edge of my tunic. I turned to her, unable to conceal the anger I felt. "Yes!" I repeated, moving swiftly to the large pile of wood and gathering some in my arms. Jaelle followed slowly.

"What you brought to her was an amulet that was-" Jaelle began, but I walked quickly away to behind the barrel where she washed, and threw the pile down over top of her voice.  
"I don't care." I responded coldly. Jaelle stopped in her tracks and frowned. I felt a pull on my heart as I said this, having never been so short with Jaelle before. But all of the darkness within me, that had been growing, and growing since I was first left in the catacombs by the same Romany who I now lived amongst, had taken over and my anger gripped my heart fiercely.

As I reached down to pick up another pile of wood, Jaelle's soft hand gently gripped my arm. I closed my eyes and sighed as she did so, wrestling with the part of me that wanted to tell her what had happened, and the part of me that wished to leave the Court immediately and never see her again.

"Did something happen?" she asked, her voice quiet and concerned. I groaned as I picked up a larger pile of firewood than I could manage, straightening my back and avoiding her eyes.  
"Yes, I gave the amulet to Vadoma. She was unpleasant. Now it is done."  
"What happened to your arm?"  
"Nothing!" I snapped at her, and as I struggled to the pile of wood behind the caravan, this time she did not follow.

That night I lay awake once again. I was exhausted from the night before, but far too restless to sleep. I had thought about Vadoma, and the other faceless women in the tent. I thought about Clopin, drunk from wine, pressing himself onto me, and how he told me he had saved me, as if my life- my body, was something that was owed to him. Though, I thought mostly about the gallows in the Court, the enticing long nooses that swung from that tall beam overhead. If he would not free me, and he would not have me killed, I had begun to think that I should get it done in some way myself. A number of plans filled my mind and I weighed myself against the details. The thought of taking my own life appealed to me in a sense... to place myself on the gallows while everyone slept. Or, perhaps by the end of a dagger...

But after all this time, ending it quietly, with my own hands felt wrong. It was a convenience I did not want to afford them, imagining the eyes of everyone in the village looking upon the face of my pale corpse in the morning, uncaring. After hours of laying awake, I hadn't come up with anything, but I had remembered something in Jaelle's crates that I thought might be useful. As quietly as I could, I stood up in the darkness and made my way to the corner of the caravan, matching the creaking of the floor boards with Jaelle's deep breathing and occasional snores. Being quite careful was just a precaution, for the whole time I had stayed there, I had never known Jaelle to stir or wake in her sleep.

I scanned what I could see of the contents of the crates, before locating the one I had been looking for. Carefully, I lifted some and moved them around until I had the one open to me. I lifted a false top made of wood and dug through the inside until I felt the cold steel of the dagger at the bottom of it.

Pulling it out, I realized it was larger than I had originally thought. I released it from its leather hold, turning it over in the light from a candle on the table. The hilt was dark wood, and steel lined the top and the bottom. It sat comfortably in my hand, warm and beckoning, the weight matching what pulled on my insides as I sat in the dark, contemplating nefarious activities. The dagger came with a small sheath, and I fastened a strap to it so that I could keep it on the inside of my calf, high enough that nobody could spot it. I climbed back onto the makeshift bed, and pulled the quilt over me, now able to close my eyes and fall into sleep for awhile.

Jaelle had kept her distance, not pushing further by examining me on what had happened that night, and it was a few days before anything else would happen. I had been considering many different plans of escape- from threatening the man in which I traded Jaelle's goods with into sneaking me out, to hurting someone, in hopes that the Romany Court would hold a trial and sentence me to death. The possible outcomes spun in circles through my mind all through each night that passed, a growing anxiety that was telling me to move before it was too late. All that had happened became woven into each plan, feeding the darkness, the hurt that drove me to consider actually hurting another person out of desperation. But what did I care if I hurt them? They hadn't cared when they left me to starve, when they sent me to what they believed was my death.

Eventually, the day came when I no longer had the choice. My fate had been decided for me. It began one morning as I carried a bucket up the hill from the well. As I drew closer to the caravan, I saw a long, slender silhouette with billowing brown hair and a dark crimson dress trailing after it. I knew even from where I stood it was her... She turned to me before stepping gracefully up the small ladder and opening the door to the caravan without knocking. I stopped in my steps and gently placed the heavy bucket to the ground, watching as Vadoma's sheer dress passed through the doorway. My heart skipped a beat, but then I thought "maybe if she tells Jaelle what she saw, they will come for me..." and the thought was a comfort, feeding the part of me that wanted more than anything to be free from the Court.

I waited outside the caravan, perched on the stump reserved for chopping wood, staring at the ground at nothing in particular. I pressed the hilt of the dagger strapped to my leg slightly, making sure it was still there, and I waited for what felt like a very long time. Eventually, Vadoma left the door as she had come in, walking as though she was a flame that needn't touch the ground, ethereal and floating. Eyeing me she began to move towards me and I tensed my leg, feeling the cold hide of the dagger sheath against my skin. When she was close enough, I rose from my perched position so that we stood eye to eye once more.

"You..." her voice slithered through my mind. I said nothing but tried to keep a strong demeanour. "You do not belong here. I see now, what you long for, your wish to die. You reek of your own lonely. But believe me, if you are not gone in three days." She held three dark, slender fingers up in front of my face. "I will show you a fate worse than death." Her words cut into my already heavy heart, my temples pulsed, my hand forming a tight fist which sat firmly at my side. Visions flickered through my mind as I stared back into her eyes of myself reaching down, retrieving the dagger and stabbing her in the heart. I tried to force them back out from the way they came, afraid that she could read them. Vadoma stared down at me one last time before turning and leaving, her crimson silhouette disappearing into the distance.

Once she had faded from view I quickly went to the caravan to see Jaelle. As I walked through the door, which had been left open, I stopped in shock. Jaelle sat in front of her table holding her head, blood cascading down her face.  
"Jaelle!" I exclaimed and rushed forward, crouching in front of her. I moved her hands aside and found a welt on her brow, just above one eye. She looked sad, but not in pain.  
"I'm fine... it's just a little blood..." her voice was heavy. I retrieved a fresh piece of cloth, tearing off a chunk and coming back to her side to help blot the blood away. "What did she do?" I frowned deeply, and with her one open eye she sized me up before sighing heavily.  
"The amulet I gave her, it has been passed down from the first Romany. The woman who holds it takes on takes on the role of the puri daj- the oldest mother. Once it has been given, it can not be given back." Jaelle explained, sadly. "Of course, Vadoma is a different kind of Romany. She's powerful, and uses her power to seek out only pleasure. She was not happy about the amulet, and so she threw it at me." When Jaelle said this I pulled my hand back that had been helping apply weight to the oozing welt. I stood up quickly.  
"She did what?!"

Jaelle pressed her palm to the air gently, motioning for me to calm down. "My dear, please." I clenched my jaw but obliged, resting on a knee in front of her. "Whether she likes it or not, Vadoma has taken on the role. It has already finished, but I made the mistake to send you... and I regret doing so..." she looked away from me as she told me this. "I underestimated her and how upset it would make her, but I couldn't trust one of our own people. Vadoma is cunning, seductive. They would have listened to whatever she said, and she would have left without it."

My mind went to Clopin, drunken in the tent that night. Had his glossy eyes been seduced as well? I remembered Vadoma telling him the amulet was his mother's, but knowing it was a lie that it had been meant for him. I rested on my knee, thinking about all that had happened. I thought about Vadoma's words, that she had given me three days to leave the Court, and wondered if it were true.

"Jaelle, I-" I had begun to say, but she stopped me.  
"Vadoma is leaving in three days, to meet with a number of our people from Spain. She told me that after this time runs out, if you remain here, she would ensure your destruction, as well as my own." As Jaelle spoke, my heart began to sink. Escape was all I had been able to think about for days, and yet, it had been something I wanted to do.

Suddenly I felt as though I had no choice, that I had to move quickly. My mind sadly drifted to Clopin. How could I tell him? Jaelle looked up at me again, almost as though she was reading my thoughts. "There is a way for me to help you. But you are to tell no one, or it would put us all in grave risk." she said. I nodded solemnly, and once more pushed all thoughts of Clopin out of my mind.

"When-"  
"The morning after next, at dawn. I will make arrangements. You must prepare yourself, and for the love of all things, draw no more attention to yourself. In the morning, you will do all as you have done any other day." Jaelle's voice pleaded with me. I nodded once more, to show her that I agreed, and went to the bucket outside in order to dampen the cloth and help Jaelle with her wound.

That night, my mind raced in defiance, turning over every possible outcome, each scenario for me to leave. Deep inside, my heart ached to find him, the king amongst the Court, and tell him of the plan. My mind would then over rule, and the two wrestled until exhaustion won the match and sleep possessed me.


	24. Three of Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A card reading and the great wheel.

In these last few days, I had stopped dreaming. Perhaps because each day had become less and less real, and somehow everything, from the first time I saw Clopin in the market until now, had melted together and sat rotting in the back of my mind. It had all become a painful nightmare, the kind you tried to forget after waking. It felt even less real that it would all be over soon and that I would be outside of the court in a matter of hours. Jaelle continued to keep her distance throughout the final days I spent in the underground village of the Romany people, her eyes, filled with concern, unable to maintain contact for very long.

With what she had told me Vadoma had said, and Harmon being at least a week away from Paris, I worried about leaving her alone as well, and wished to ask her what was going to happen, where I'd be going, if she would be okay. I knew better than to press her as well, the two of us sharing the weight of understanding.

I remembered a night, long ago, while the winds howled on a rainy evening in Paris. I had struggled through the streets towards the corner of the market where Jaelle met with the many thieves who stole for her throughout Paris. My feet were sore from a long day of work, my hands cracked and dry and trembling in the cold, and each step onto the cobble stone made me cringe as I kept my hood pulled around me as tightly as possible.

Winding through the densely packed, empty streets, warm candle lights filled every window and reminded me of my dire situation. I had a meager day- the head servant of the household I was working kept a close watch of the valuables that were even easy to access to scullery maids, and so I had only made off with some silverware. The cold points of it stuck into my stomach, just under my ribs and made me walk faster, the blisters on my feet aching as I did so.

Finally making it to the doorway where she usually waited with a cart in the market, I found it closed. I feared that I missed her and began banging on the door, the wet wood splashing beneath my fits. The door then creaked open and I was met with Harmon's concerned eyes.  
"The door was shut!" I told him loudly over the sound of the rain, beating harder now on the hood of my cloak.  
"Yes, it's raining!" He remarked, stepping aside and gesturing me to come in. Hastily, I obliged and found myself in the dark nook where Jaelle's stand was kept. Drops of rain fell from the old awning above, and rats scurried into the corners, but it was considerably more dry and warm. My eyes adjusted and I saw Jaelle sitting in front of a candle, it cast orange shadows in the black, cold night. As I approached her, Jaelle's face lit up.  
"My dear! We were wondering if you had been caught." her voice said kindly. Harmon gestured to the cushion on the floor in front of her and reached to grab my cloak before I could protest. "What have you brought us?" she asked, dusting off the small wooden table in front of her. I sighed.  
"Not much, really. I would have waited until tomorrow, but I wanted to get out of the cold..." I looked away from her, fearing disappointment. But her voice came back warmly.  
"These days have been no good. Not even the street thieves have been bringing us much. Let's have a look."

I reached into my tunic and retrieved the silverware, laying it on the table sadly. Jaelle gathered them up and inspected them for a moment.  
"Yes, as I said. Hard times lately for everyone." she repeated, but smiled kindly. Harmon produced two livres and placed the small coins on the table. As I slid my hand ontop of them, he put his large, warm hand on top of mine, sweetly. I looked up at him and his eyes smiled with reassurance. "It's not much, but here..." Jaelle pulled out a bottle of wine and poured some into a metal cup that sat beside her. "Have some warm wine as well." She slid the cup towards me.

"Thank you..." I said quietly, letting the comforting contents of the cup slide down my throat, instantly stopping the chills that had erupted across my skin.  
"You should stay for awhile." Jaelle produced a small wooden box and placed it on the table. "Did you know that us gypsies can use playing cards to read fortunes?" a sparkle glimmered in her eye as she spoke. I moved the cup from my lips slightly.  
"I have heard this of your kind..." I responded, playing along.  
"We are always hungry for a patron with deep pockets." It sounded as though she was going into an act, and it made me smile even as cold and damp bones felt as though they would shake my skin off of me. Jaelle took the lid off the box and pulled out a stack of pieces of worn parchment.

"The question is..." she shuffled them artfully, quicker than I had ever seen someone do so, it almost appeared as magic. "If you're brave enough to find out where your past..." she pulled one card from the stack of the deck and placed it face down on the table in front of me. "And your present..." As she said so, she pulled another and lay it down next to it. "Will meet your future." Dramatically, she held one final card in front of me before setting it down with the others.

"I'm sorry, old woman, but I have only these two measly livres to my name." I smiled back at her, and in the darkness Harmon's warm laugh bounced off of the damp stone walls.  
"Oh, well... this one time then, this reading is on the house. The great wheel of fortune that turns us all!" her voice crackled, sending a chill of excitement up my spine. Jaelle's palm hit the table and she flicked the first card over. I peered over it, squinting to make out the image that lay in the faded paint.

The card showed two coins, painted in yellow with a five pointed star outlined in black in the middle. Jaelle hummed with interest. I glanced at the livres that Harmon had given me that sat, stacked on top of each other not far from the cards and shook my head, impressed.  
"The Past- the two of coins." Jaelle announced proudly.  
"How did you do that?"  
"The two is a beginning, you have begun to master something. Something of earthly value. A trade? A profession? Something that will bring you material wealth..." her eyes widened at mine and I looked down at the card skeptically.  
"Doesn't seem so." I said, tracing my fingers over the painted coins. Jaelle paused for a moment, and then flicked over the second one. It showed three cups, two on the bottom and one balanced on top.  
"The present!" Jaelle commanded. "Ah, the three of cups... Of course." she cheekily lifted her wine to me. "Celebration, meeting of souls who fill each other up, a solace for the heart." Our cups met for a moment and we both drank, each sip making me feel lighter and warmer.  
"But now, what we all have been waiting for. We know where our lives have gone, and if we can see, we may even know where we are today. Only the cards, and the great wheel..." she held the corner of the card in her fingers, staring into my eyes before flipping it over. "Know what has yet to pass."

I stared at the card intently. Three daggers sat in a triangle- each hilt meeting another's blade, in the center of the three was a small red flower. Jaelle sat back, humming once again.  
"The three of swords..." she said out loud to herself. "You will be bound by a great pain, something that cuts you deep. This pain will confuse you, stop you from action... A person? A predicament? or an Idea? the pain will bind you, stop you from making a choice of how to move forward."

The words seemed to flow from her, but not from rehearsal, she truly read the meaning from the simple pictures that sat on them. "The wheel has said it is so." she smiled proudly back. I held in a laugh.

"And the people pay for this?"  
"Sometimes." she nodded and took another drink of wine.

There, in what had become my future, I remembered this night, in which Jaelle and Harmon had brought light and warmth to such a cold, dreary evening. It had not been long before I had met Clopin's fingers in the same pocket, that day in the market. I recalled returning to my bed that night without having eaten, but still feeling so full, and being grateful for the poor weather for bringing them to me. I thought about it as I brought down Jaelle's linens onto the stone, rubbing potash into them and wringing them out into a bucket of water. I turned to the door of her caravan and stared at it longingly, it felt so far away.

Over a silent dinner that evening, I glanced up at her a few times, but couldn't think of anything to say. There was a stinging, aching feeling in my chest as I thought that this may have been one of the last times I would ever see her. Jaelle had explained that in the morning, I was to meet the man who I had been seeing in the Court on Jaelle's behalf every few days. He was to sneak me out of the Court, and bring me out of the city in the cart which he used for transporting stolen goods from Jaelle. That was all that I knew, after that, Jaelle couldn't tell me where I would be going, or what I was to do. After eating in silence, Jaelle resumed her position on the pile of cushions, weaving the thread through her tapestry quietly. Soon, her breath steadied into heavy, deep breaths and I carefully moved her tapestry from her lap onto the table.

I stepped out of the caravan with the bucket of feed and walked towards Jaelle's chickens. I sighed deeply as I threw feed onto the ground, watching as the skinny hens ate happily, trying not to think about what awaited me in the morning, or in the future.

A feeling suddenly crept up my back, causing all of the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. I heard footsteps on the soft earth and it sent my skin ablaze with fearful chills. Carefully I lowered the bucket to the floor and grasped the handle of the dagger from my leg. As I felt the presence at my back I turned around quickly, extending my arm with the dagger and sweeping it out in front of me. It met with a slender arm, and I felt as its tip licked at it's flesh, dragging a drop of blood out of it as it crossed. The leather glove at the end swiftly grasped my hand with the dagger forcefully, causing the blade to drop to the earth below us. I was staring into Clopin's eyes. I gasped as I realized who I had cut with my dagger, and immediately studied his face- it was at ease, but his eyes were laden with a distant sadness as he stared at me sternly, and I glanced to his arm. The fabric of his sleeve had been cut, and a thick red line pooled blood from underneath it.  
"What are you doing?" I asked, my breath catching up with me. Clopin's eyes fell to our feet, where the dagger lay in between us. He still held my wrist in his hand.  
"Where did you get that?" he ignored my question.

"I told you to stay away from me.." I said, my eyes darting around our surroundings anxiously, but allowing my wrist to dangle in his grip.  
"Meet me tomorrow night, by the tent at the far edge of the court" he said. He meant my tent... where we had... my heart ached deeply as he said this, the truth bit at my tongue, my teeth, the edges of my lips. I would not still be there tomorrow night.  
"I can't...Vadoma..." I began sadly, looking away from him.  
"She will still be gone by then." His arm grasped my side and he brought me close to him, but I was unable to meet his eyes.  
"But I-" I protested, but in an instant his mouth had found mine. I hungrily accepted him, the breath between us passed back and forth through long, greedy kisses. As he pulled away, I gently bit his lip, holding him there for a moment more, trying to make it all last a little bit longer. He kept his hands on my waist and looked into my eyes.  
"That is not a request."

He let go of me and turned, leaving as swiftly as he had come, under the shadows of the Court. Something stirred in my heart, which had been aching for so long now. I wanted to see him again, to say goodbye. Or if not to say goodbye, to have one last night together. But maybe, Vadoma was not able to do what she said she could, and if not, maybe we would be able to... Already, I imagined our limbs intertwined, and the pleasurable moans filled my mind. I reached down and picked back up my dagger, rubbing some dirt onto it to wipe off the small amount of blood that hung to the tip, and replacing it in its sheath strapped to my leg. Happily, I bit down on my lip, my tongue tasting him again and made my way back to the caravan. I climbed up the small ladder and pushed on the door.

A hand grabbed me roughly by the sleeve and pulled me inside. As the hand slammed the door behind me, I turned, alarmed to see Jaelle standing by it.  
"Jaelle what are you-"  
"Are you a fool?! What did I tell you to do, gadjianke?" her voice shook with rage. I stood up straight and stared at her.  
"What are you talking ab-"  
"I saw you together!" She cried, her eyes burned holes into mine and I looked away, a smile crossing my lips as I thought about Clopin, wanting to see me. "What is the matter with you?!" her voice whispered harshly.  
"Jaelle, I-"

"No! Listen to me! Vadoma told me what she is going to do if you stay here. She will make Clopin choose between you and telling all our people about what he has done. You don't understand Romany- you are gadjianke- marime, unclean!" The shaking in her voice grew as she spoke, I stood pushed against the back wall, eyes moving around her face, trying to keep up.  
"Clopin will not choose you. He will not leave our people, to wander the earth with you, a gadjianke. He will not take you to Spain with him, to rule as Queen of the Gypsies. You will die here, and as all of our people leave Paris, they will seal your bones in the catacombs. He would leave you, in an unmarked grave, a skeleton like all the others, for our people."

As she spoke, tears had begun to fall down my cheeks. I had never seen her so angry, she would not stop speaking, and what she said felt far too cruel to be true. I interrupted her, shouting.  
"Then let me die here, Jaelle!"

"No! You can not! So many have risked so much already for you. Me, Harmon, Danoir, Rhoda. You don't understand- how many girls I have seen since I have come to Paris. Girls, much younger than you, who were married off, with child, to old men who were sick with drink and had nothing to their name. This is your life, girl! If you choose to stay for Clopin, I will bring Vadoma to you myself!" Her voice cracked as she said this, but she pulled it back and stood breathing heavily.

When she finally stopped for a moment, the two of us stood in the doorway, catching our breath. Tears continued to stream down my face. I cried harder as I thought to myself that she was right. Clopin would not choose to be with me over staying with the Romany. I was an English orphan, a non-gypsy, a gadjianke. Once he had satisfied his desires, or his interest, whichever kept him coming back to me, I would still be trapped down in the Court of Miracles, with nowhere to go but deep into a tunnel somewhere to die alone.

"Do not throw away your freedom for the first person to tell you that they've wanted you." Jaelle continued, her voice calming down. I lowered my head to my chest, to hide my face which now buckled under heavy tears. They fell in warm, thick droplets onto my dress.

Jaelle moved towards me and her soft hands took either side of my face, tilting it towards her. "Your life is your life. Go, find happiness... find love... forget this place, forget us all. And live."

Through the haze of my tears, I saw that candle light reflected off of some of her own. They did not drop down from her old, deep dark eyes, but hung in place. As I stared back at her, I saw in her face the young woman she once had been. This was who stared at me now, pleading with me. The woman who had been taking care of others her whole life, who had been stuck in Paris while her family was mistreated, or disappeared, all around her. She had been stopped from the Romany way of travel, frozen in her tracks. I gained composure, letting my face fall into her hands, and the sobs that shook me became less and less.

The morning came in what felt like an instant. I pulled my cloak over my shoulders and Jaelle stood with me at the door to the caravan. I struggled to find words to say to her, deep inside it felt like I had already passed, all that was left were phantoms of feelings I used to have, but I wanted so badly to tell her how much she had come to mean to me. Jaelle looked at me knowingly and held my arm gently.  
"Don't be foolish, remember you have the great wheel with you." she told me, and then took my bandaged hand in hers and kissed my fingers. I swallowed back tears.  
"Thank you." I said to her, leaving the door to the caravan and fighting with myself not to look back.

Jaelle had instructed me to go to the far side of the Court, the other side from where I had stayed in the isolated tent by myself. There, a stack of barrels and burlap blocked the entrance to a long, dark tunnel that had remained empty. At the end of the tunnel, a ladder would bring me into an abandoned home. It was here I was to wait for the man who I had met with many times in the Court. Hesitating for only a moment as I pulled the burlap back, I cast one last glance over the backs of the rows and rows of tents and caravans that sat in the distance. They stood there in lines like sleeping soldiers of a small army. I thought about how Clopin was asleep in one of them, and of the last time I had looked into his eyes, before disappearing into the dark tunnel, leaving the Court of Miracles behind me.


	25. Gilo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Departure

The day seemed to pass by slower than any other. Clopin and the Court of Miracles had prepared for weeks to accommodate their incoming Gitanos brothers and sisters from Spain and they would be there any day now. All apprehension of their arrival had left his mind, though. He buzzed with anticipation with the rest of the Court but only as it drew darker and later, as he knew he would be seeing her soon.

He spent the day trying not to appear lost in thought, acutely aware of the small cut on his arm that her dagger had graced him with. It stung as it brushed across his sleeve throughout the day, and a stinging would echo in his chest. What he had not resolved was what he was going to say or do when he met with her again.

Clopin's heart was torn. Romany valued freedom above all else, and he was guilty of not only bringing an outsider into the sanctuary for his people, but of keeping her there, imprisoned. Romany didn't keep prisoners, they executed them. For being imprisoned by anyone would be a fate worse than death. He couldn't let her die, not after she had fought so hard for him. Not after she had fought so hard for herself, and so it seemed the only option would be to let her return to Paris, and see to it that she would leave immediately and never return. But each time he imagined remaining in the court without her, the ache would flare in his chest, a flickering rush light, sputtering out the wick under its slow burning flame.

After he had seen her, after he had watched Vadoma's venom sear through her flesh, Clopin had a dream. It was hazy and drunken as the night had been. On this day, he could now see the night so clearly. The girl had left him where he stood, pressed against the far wall of the Court, right in the middle of the path he would take to pass by her tent in the weeks before. Vadoma had smiled, her intention slicing through the night. 

"You know she does not love you?" She cooed. Clopin had turned to her.   
"What do you know of love?" he slurred in response. Vadoma floated closer to him, he smelled her sweet sweat.   
"I know more of women than you could ever hope to learn, Clopin. And this is how I know that once she did, but the love is no longer." 

Clopin steadied himself and began to slowly walk away as Vadoma watched. 

"Why not go after her, Clopin? Why do you not ask her to stay with you?" Her eyes flicked across him in the darkness.  
"Vadoma this is not one of your games or tricks--"  
"You have two choices, your _majesty_. And since the river of her heart, for you, has become like mine, has become like the hearts of so many women- lost in the desert until it has dried up like the cursed soil of the crypt that we stand on, I would choose wisely, for if _you_ believe that you love her, there is truly only one way to save her sad, small life, now."

Clopin stopped in his tracks. His heart began to race. 

"And what would that be?" He spoke quietly.  
"You will take her, and leave this place, leave behind all of the Romany people and let us forget you, forget all that you are, and spend the rest of your days with a woman who no longer loves you. Or. You can take her life."

At this, Clopin spun around, rage rushing through his blood.

"I will not be threatened--"   
"For if you don't. Then I will. And you can spend the rest of your days with me, ruling at your side. A woman who will never love you either." 

Vadoma's cruelty fell into the pit of Clopin's stomach as he realized there was no use in objecting to it. Vadoma intended to claim a spot in leading the Romani people and this was her opportunity. 

"You have been given the amulet, you've taken the-" Clopin began to argue.  
"I will not let some sad old woman decide my future for me. Decide what you will do, and know that in either case, I couldn't care less." Vadoma smiled, victorious. Clopin felt his insides turn. 

They spun around inside of him as he lay awake, the morning creeping in through his caravan, until he had finally fallen into a deep sleep. It was darkness, all of it. He felt as though he were in the Court, but could not see anything. He heard screams, moans, wicked laughter. His hands stretched out in front of him he tried to grasp onto anything, but it was all sharp and needly and almost made out of smoke-- until a familiar feeling. The soft leather of a wealthy purse and then-- the warm, weathered feeling of a soft hand ontop of his. The hand recoiled quickly, but this time, Clopin reached out. He grabbed it, and it held his back. Suddenly he could see again. He was in the market that day, and the girl stared back at him, the exact way she had when their fates had been intertwined. This time, Clopin didn't feel the shock or panic or anger, just relief. 

"It's you."

He said in the dream. The girl looked terrified. 

"Her?!" a sudden voice screamed. The student grabbed the girl by her dress, pushing her back into a market stall. Clopin stepped in to try and fight him off. But then hands were ripping him back, passing him back through the crowd. He struggled to be free of their grip but could not push back towards the girl. Frollo had placed her on her knees and the guards encased her hands in irons. One of them removed their sword and placed it to the girl's neck. She looked up at him and they locked eyes for just a moment until the sword passed through, blood now coating her dress. 

Clopin had awoken with a start, now alone in his caravan and though he had not yet figured out exactly what he was going to do-- he knew one thing. He had to see her. Again. Maybe even for the very last time. 

But now, that day, if Clopin had not been so absorbed with the wrenching of his heart, he may have noticed that the feeling of fear, of conflict, that he felt was of a loss that had already come to pass. Something was missing. The buzz of anticipation was also a buzz of dread, of guilt, of worry that emanated from Jaelle's caravan as she quietly worked inside.

By night fall, his chest felt like a wasps nest. Its paper thin encasement gave way to little flashes of hot lightning, as he felt the pile of stinging insects brushing their wings against his insides. He walked towards the end of the Court, his head down, his feet moving quickly, his thoughts shooting back and forth across his mind, changing with each step he took closer to her.

And then, right as the tent had come into view, he stopped. The tent was nothing more than a shadow, slightly darker than the court that engulfed it. But as he shifted his weight, leaning towards it and straining his eyes, he knew that she had not come.

The cut on his arm pulsed. With anger, confusion, hurt. More hurt. The wasps in his chest now gripped to his heart, their stingers slowly pressing into his flesh. Something was not right.

He turned sharply to the top of the hill where Jaelle's caravan sat, smoke billowing high above the others. His heart beating wildly, his leg flinched as he went to lift it and begin to walk towards it, but something caught his eye and he turned again.

Danoir stood a few yards away, staring at him. They both were silent and still.

"Nephew." Clopin said under his breath.

Danoir did not respond, but slowly turned and walked back towards the middle of the Court. Clopin heard the clattering of carts and hushed sound of bells, and something else washed over him. Sudden panic... they had begun to arrive.

Clopin glanced back up the hill towards Jaelle's caravan. Now he didn't have time. But did Danoir know? Had he helped her escape? Had he taken her life, for himself? Clopin's pace quickened after his nephew, watching his shadow far ahead of him.

But as he turned a corner after him, the middle of the Court came into few and he swallowed his fear, his anger, his panic as though it were a hot coal and entered the quiet crowd swiftly. Through the figures of weary Romany dragging their wagons out of the dark tunnels of the catacombs, Vadoma gracefully passed through them, her long dark hair trailing after her in thick waves. The smell of flowers and spice followed her. Danoir glanced up at Clopin, his eyes warning him. Clopin smiled.

"Vadoma, welcome. We did not expect you back so soon." Clopin's jaw tensed under his smile. Vadoma's eyes burrowed into him, even in the darkness, but her smile met his, slyly.  
"Clopin." She bowed her head. "Thank you."

Clopin tried to turn to leave, but Vadoma spoke to Danoir, loudly.  
"Where is that gadjianke servant you keep? I want her to bring in my trunks, they are too heavy."

Danoir looked down.

"...Servant?" He struggled to respond.

"She will be swinging from the gallows by now."

A voice cracked through the darkness from behind Clopin, and all three of them turned to it. Jaelle stood quietly by a tent nearby. Clopin exhaled, shakily, the coals and the wasps all swelling with heat inside of him. His throat became instantly dry. Vadoma recognized her voice and walked angrily towards her, the end of her robe grazing Clopin as she did so.

"You lie."

"You can see for yourself, I'm sure her ghost would love to see you hung side by side."

Vadoma turned sharply back to Clopin.

"You would allow this treachery? For her to let that pitiful thief to walk free? Knowing what she does?!"

As more of the Romany filed out of the catacombs, they looked to the developing scene.

"I assure you, Vadoma, the girl is dead." Danoir interrupted. "Now please, stop this foolish bickering-"

"Lies!" Vadoma hissed back at him. "I am the puri daj! Do not lie to me!"

"Did you really think that Clopin would allow for her to live? A girl who had him imprisoned? Who had put all Romany at risk? When they called for her death? The only thing our king loves more than our people is his own neck. And why would I have agreed to do so? She was invaluable to me alive."

Clopin's face burned in the night, but he did not look away.

Vadoma turned back to Jaelle, angrily. But then she cooled, like a burning log turned to embers.

"Very well, then. I will have someone visit the gallows and describe to me what colour her pale face has turned now."

"A generous suggestion. Have them bring Clopin a souvenir, like a finger." Jaelle smiled. "But for now, Vadoma, your duties as oldest mother command that you help your sisters with their caravans. Your journey has been blessed." Jaelle nodded and slowly turned, walking back up the hill towards her home. Vadoma stared after her, silenced but unsatisfied.

"...Stupid old woman... I'll find that girl and kill her myself... " Vadoma slithered under her breath and returned to the catacomb entrance.

Clopin stared after Jaelle, unmoving and unsure of what it was now that was falling over him like a shadow. She hadn't killed the girl... was that possible? Clopin turned back to Danoir but he was gone.

Walking up the hill, Jaelle's eyes were pinched into a frown. Even if she suspected that her plan had worked, and that the girl had survived, lying about her death, about her hanging at the gallows caused her concern. If anything had gone wrong, the girl would be. If Vadoma did try to see for herself, Jaelle feared that she would be met with a corpse. Worse yet, what if speaking it out loud had made it happen? Jaelle would never be able to tell. For even if the man who she had sent the girl away with delivered her to the manor safely, what if it wasn't enough? Jaelle exhaled, her breath cracking with upset. How would she be able to live without ever knowing?

Jaelle approached her caravan, but stopped as her foot met with the first of the wooden steps.

Still looking down, she heard as Clopin's voice came from the shadows.

"What have you done?"

"I did what you could not." she responded, still not daring to turn to him, fearing that there were more eyes on her than she knew.

She saw as his figure slid closer in the darkness.

"She was not your prisoner to release."

"And now she is nobody's, but her own." Jaelle took a step up to her caravan. She felt as Clopin seemed to fold into the shadows, without actually moving. His voice came, quietly now.

"Is she..."

Jaelle took a breath.

"Her life is her own. We will never know what will become of it. Be grateful that she now has a chance. Clopin, do not look back, for whether or not she hangs from the gallows, she is dead to you now. Forget her name and do not speak of her again."

Jaelle did not wait for a response. She opened the door to her home and quickly shut it behind her. Now inside, she let her face fall. Quietly, Jaelle went to her herbs and gathered together a bunch of esfand. Her hands were shaking as she lit the pile with her flint, whispering prayers as the smoke rose, thinking of the girl.

Outside, Clopin waited in the dark. She was dead to him now... she was dead to him now. He placed his hand on the wound she had left him with from her dagger, staring at the ground where it had fallen between them not so long ago. Her name, he could forget. Or at least he would try. But as Clopin pressed hard onto the wound, and allowed the ache to ring through him, he thought of how the girl, like the ghost she had become, would haunt him forever.


	26. Récolte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Manor and The Harvest

The abandoned building was still dark as I emerged from a small door beneath its floor, opening it a crack and squinting into the dark, eye level to the floor. Jaelle had sternly instructed me to wait before entering the building, which had once been a home, long since burned down, which covered the opening that lead to the Court of Miracles.  
"But not too long!" she had also said, telling me that I did not want to be discovered leaving the underground city, and so was to move quickly but cautiously. I hesitated on the ladder as through a hole in the wooden wall of the building, I saw the figure of a horse pulling a wagon past. Once the wheels of the wagon rattled over the cobble stones beyond the building, I opened the latch door enough to pull myself out onto the dirty ground of the building. Quietly I let it close, and used my feet to kick the earth back on top of it. Feeling eyes on me I quickly looked up to where I felt them, but only the underside of rows and rows of doves stared back.

The morning sky outside had yet to turn light, and I could tell from the smell of the earth inside the burned remains of the structure that the ice and snow had begun to melt on the city streets, leaving behind puddles of dirt and mud. Jaelle did not say how long to wait, and I immediately grew anxious, so much of the past few days had been unsure. Did Clopin know where this was? Would Clopin came looking for me? What if this man didn't arrive, and if he did, where was he going to take me? The questions blew through my mind, as a gust of wind came in through the many holes in the building's exterior. It rushed across my skin and I shuddered, having not felt the cold air of the world above in a very long time. But there was something in the smell of the air that comforted me, even as my heart twisted and sunk as every question crossed my mind. It was late winter now, and the wind brought the smell of the wet ground, and the promise of seasons shifting into spring. Jaelle's words late the night before and the cold but optimistic air filled my heart with longing and anticipation.

I crossed the building, stepping lightly to avoid making a sound and found a corner with a kicked over crate. I inspected it to ensure it could sustain my weight and sat down, pulling my cloak tighter around myself to shelter what I could from the cold. Without realizing it, I slipped into a light sleep. The tolling of the bells of notre dame suddenly woke me with a start, and I shot forward. Some doves who had nested above me fluttered their wings as I did so, surprising them as well. The great bells tolled six. Had the man come? Had I missed him? My heart beat fiercely and I squinted around the room.

As my heart sat gripped with fear, I heard a sound. A horse and wagon approached the side of the building at a much slower pace. Cautiously, I walked towards the other side of the building and listened as the horse hooves stopped next to me. The sound of feet hitting the cobblestone followed, and then a single, abrupt knock on the wall. I paused before returning it. A board slid to the side and a hand reached through, offering itself to me. Hesitating for only a second, I accepted the hand and squeezed out into the Paris street. Relief washed over me as I found myself face to face with the man I had been meeting for Jaelle, his expression vacant and collected as ever, at the front of his wagon a horse, peppered white and grey, waited for us patiently. He replaced the board and quickly ushered me towards the back of the wagon, looking around to ensure there was no one else on the street. The man pulled on my sleeve to indicate me to stop by the back end of the wagon and got down on one knee, now offering his hand and shoulder at the level of my knee. I hesitated, staring at him, putting together the situation in my mind.

"Where are you-" I began but the man silently remained in his position and emphasized his interlocked fingers before me. I held up the corner of my skirt and placed a muddy boot onto his palm, and without another second the man hoisted me up to the top of the wagon. I gripped the wet wood of its side and strained as the toes of my feet met the side of the wagon. My bandaged hand began to ache sharply but I ignored it, pushing myself over. I fell into a space in a large pile of hay that filled the wagon, it cushioned my fall slightly, but my palms stung with the feeling of the rough wood, which had scraped at it. The man then peered over the top, the wagon sinking with his weight on the back step. He gestured to a pitch fork and, waist deep in hay, I stretched for it, awkwardly lifting it up and handing it over.

Without speaking a word, as was his way, the man took a forkful of hay and placed it on my lap. I realized now he intended to cover me in it and sighed, allowing myself to ease back into the pile that sat behind me.

I watched our departure from Paris from my back- barely making out the many pointed roofs of buildings passing over top of me, silhouetted by the stark grey morning sky. They loomed over the top of the wagon, watching me back, and from the bottom of the wagon, covered with hay, I felt as though the buildings were faces at my pyre, paying tributes to my death.

Gradually, the buildings dispersed and passing through the gates to the city, crossing the narrow bridge over the river, the sky opened up. Under the pile of hay was warm, but uncomfortable. I was already tired, and we did not stop moving slowly down the road for food or water. My stomach groaned in a familiar way, and my weary eyes followed the expanse of the sky above as it cycled through pages after pages of grey clouds and sometimes dark, leafless tree branches entangled like scraggly hair. It was not until late into the evening, when the sky had turned to solid black, that I felt the wagon slow to a stop, and the deep breaths of the horse out front steady. The man got down from the front of the wagon and knocked once, swiftly, on the back. After not moving and the uncomfortable road, my body was sore and stiff. I pulled myself out of the hay awkwardly as the man took down the latch of the back of the wagon, some of the hay shifting with it and falling to the road.

The air was as clear as crystal, and my breath pooled in front of me in crisp clouds. I only glanced around briefly but the landscape had opened onto vacant, rolling hills and I knew we were far from Paris. Taking his hand, my feet hit the muddy earth which was coated in a frost, my toes causing it to crunch beneath them. We were at a small house in the country, the main road a few yards away from us. The night was stiller than any I could remember. Even when I had come to Paris, many years ago, the sounds of the sea would cause a restless echo in the night. But out here, the land itself slept soundly. Dim candlelight filled the windows of the house beneath its wooden shutters welcomed myself and the man as we approached.

Inside, a young family greeted us quietly. The man spoke to them in French and they showed us to a table, feeding us bread and pottage. As the family slept together downstairs, the man fell asleep on the stool where he had eaten at the table. I was shown to a loft above the family's home, the eldest of their two daughters slept with them and I stayed upstairs.

In the morning, the man gestured to me to sit at the front of the wagon with him. Relieved to not have to hide under a pile of hay, we sat next to one another for a second long, silent day. My mouth felt as though it had gone dry from not speaking to another person in so long. The sense of possibility that had met me the first day had been slowly draining from my heart with each turning of the wheel of the wagon. I tried to focus on the words that Jaelle had said to me, but they were growing faint, almost as though I had left them in Paris, and they were unable to follow me through the barren countryside. The second day was as grey as the first had been, and as cold. Try as I did to concentrate on Jaelle's words, my time at the Court, and the life I lead in Paris cast a shadow over my optimism. I wanted to feel as though I was moving towards something new, but I felt the city clawing at my back, reminding me of so much that I had lost.

Out there, the winding, endless road stretched painfully, and I wondered if I was going in the right direction.

Late into that second night, we arrived at a manor house, which sat at the top of a hill and down a long path that lead from the road. The peasant homes that surrounded it were silent with sleep this late in the night. The man directed the wagon around the back of the manor to a stable. A sleeping stable boy ignored us and the man stepped down again from the wagon and gestured for me to stay where I was. Entering the manor through a door near the stable, he returned moments later with a woman dressed in a servant uniform. I let out a breath, understanding all at once what my purpose had been in coming with the man, and stepped down off of the wagon. Without a word of goodbye, I watched as the man and his wagon slowly disappeared down the path, before turning back onto the road. The woman who had met me frowned, and without so much as a second glance she lead me into the house silently.

I was to work in the manor house over the summer as a servant, and when harvest came I would help the peasants in the fields. My days inside the house of the lord were much of the same that I was used to. Cleaning, laundering. The instincts I had in Paris, the inclination towards valuables and abilities of working independently were of no use in the manor house- comprised of the large home, a small amount of woods, and four large, sprawling fields. The manor itself had only a few peasant homes, a blacksmith shop, and just outside of the village, a church which sat on the river. I learned it was the Manor Montereau, belonging to a Lord Montereau and his family.

Though my arrival had been largely ignored, the servants at the manor all knew that I was there, and would seldom speak to me other than to tell me what it was I was to do. Still, I was not used to feeling so visible. I had been given a linen cowl to once again cover my hair and shoulders, tucking the long, pale strands under its brim which I tightly tied back. After my first day of work, which had begun very early in the morning and continued well into the night, I stepped out of the back door by the stables and leaned against the stone wall. The back of the manor overlooked the forest and I stared into the bare trees intently. Was this the life that Jaelle had intended that I have? I slept that night in the great hall- a room full of sleeping servants, piled on top of each other snoring loudly.

Winter slowly crept away, and green poked its slender fingers through the earth all around me. In Paris, the change of seasons seemed to happen in one evening, obscured by the crowded streets and buildings. Where I was, I noticed the slow progression into spring vibrantly. The sheep, hens and ducks had all had babies. Passing through the grounds of the manor house I watched as the small animals began to stand on their own shaking legs. I had begun to remember my time in England before leaving for France, and how secure it had felt to watch as life began all around me. The trees budded and opened into leaves, and I watched each day as the fields were full of people preparing the land under the sun which burned brightly in the summer sky.

It was in these months, where the sweat pooled on our brows as we worked to keep the manor house clean, and that the stone floors smelled of sun and fresh dirt, that I met a woman named Anes, who worked in the fields beyond the manor house. She lived in one of the few homes that surrounded it with her husband and children, and told me of the families that worked for the manor, and the lord that they served. One day she had asked me if I had bled, to which I blinked at her but told her that I had. Then, sheepishly, she asked me what had happened to my husband. To this I frowned, but I was suddenly unsure as to whether or not I should tell the truth. Every woman who lived on the manor was a wife, or a widow. Together, the couples would work in the fields from before dawn until dusk every day over the summer. I had begun to realize that outside of Paris, as soon as a girl had turned old enough, she was partnered with a boy. Many of the other women like me in Paris, who stole from the homes in which we worked, or turtledoves as we called them in England, had come to Paris to find work. Their families had been unable to save for the dowery that they afforded the men, or boys, who they would be wed to.

I paused for awhile before telling her that I had yet to be married, as I didn't have any parents. Anes looked back at me sadly for a moment, but then insisted that I meet her son, Sabastien.

He was tall, and handsome, but in a boyish way as he was just barely a man. Meeting him, I saw as he eyed me hungrily, but there was a sweetness in his eyes as well. His mother beamed at the two of us as we met in their home one evening, and I tried to smile with her, but seeing the look in his eye felt like embers hitting the inside of my chest. A familiar glare, and memories that haunted me rose from it. After supper, I had helped the woman in putting their animals to rest for the evening, and she told me that she would like it if we were married. Heat crossed my cheeks and I turned to her,  
trying to explain that I had nothing to my name to help the family. Anes began to tell me of her families situation on the manor. They were to remain on the land, caring for it in return for their homes, and protection from the lord. When her husband died, the land would be inherited by Sabastien.

It was a kind arrangement, for a family who had so little to offer to myself who had even less. I did not want to insult Anes by saying no, and so I told her that I would have to wait and see until after harvest. Though this made Anes happy, each time I saw Sabastien, the look in his eye had grown. He looked at me after that like something that might some day belong to him, and it made me my stomach feel heavy.

My days in the manor house were as long as my time living in the manor was lonely. It was hard to adjust to the silence of the country, to their customs and rituals, and the work which varied slightly to manors in the city. I felt strange being a singlewoman here, and like each day that passed where I didn't accept Anes' proposal I was estranging myself more and more from the one person I had truly spoken to since I had been there. Still, I had kept my hand under its bandage since I had arrived, out of fear that someone would identify my injury and it would render me useless for work in the fields come fall.

By the time that summer burned out, leaving all of the peasants of the manor faded in its ashes, I had already seen Sabastien married to another girl from the manor. I watched as his hungry gaze fell onto her, and in response her young and eager eyes swelled, looking at him with loving possibilities, the sinking in my stomach stirring as they shared a kiss.

Harvest came not soon after, and the servants in the manor house who would not be staying through the winter all worked in the fields. Anes and her husband worked along side each other, as all of the women from the manor worked with their husbands, except for myself and two who were widows. We had the same amount of work in the fields as the other peasants and serfs who worked alongside us, only we were without assistance from anyone.

Working alone in the field proved harder than any position I had held in a household. I completed each day long after the sunset, my hands blistered and nearly bloody, my back feeling as though it were to break. Sleeping still in the great hall of the manor house, I longed to return to domestic duties. Somedays the field where I worked neighboured the road which I had arrived on with the wagon and Jaelle's confidant from Paris.

Here I watched many travellers on the road, dirt covering my face and sticking beneath my fingernails, and would stop for a moment to watch them carry on past the manor. More than once, I noticed that it would be a group of many travellers who pulled a covered wagon, and I would try to make out their shapes distinctly as they passed by in the distance, my heart beating loudly in my chest, had it been them- Romany from Paris? Uncertain, the turning of rotting logs in my stomach would persist, until I could no longer make out their shapes in fading out of view and would be forced to return to my work.

One day, nearing the end of Harvest, when the fields had been nearly picked clean of the food we had grown for the lord of the manor, and the manor house had begun preparing the cellars for the winter, I found myself in the back of the manor house by the stables on an early evening. I had kept my dagger concealed, wrapped in my cloak which I hadn't needed to wear in many months, and as the other servants and peasants had begun to talk about the end of the season, I had brought it back out this evening, turning it over once before placing it back to its spot on my calf. As I inspected my hands, red from the chill that had been steadily creeping through the days and nights, and blisters and callouses now lined my fingers from work in the fields, Anes had appeared beside me. We sat silently, not acknowledging each other for a moment.

"Harvest is almost at an end..." she said in French, staring out on the fields thoughtfully. I nodded slightly, folding my aching hands into my chest for warmth. "And so is your season here." she turned to me and looked into my eyes. Without land on the manor, or a marriage to another servant, we were to leave as soon as the harvest had ended.  
"How do I get out of here?" I asked, more to myself, quietly. Anes looked to the road beyond the fields.  
"There is a town not far from here, the others will be going by wagon soon." she responded.  
"And what will I do there..." I gazed at the tops of the trees in the nearby woods.

The leaves, which had adorned them all summer had begun to drop one by one, like stars falling from the sky. Anes was silent for a moment, a wind rushing by the two of us, carrying the chill, and the smell of season's change with it.  
"I wish you good luck, and safe travels." Anes said kindly, placing her delicate and worn hand on my shoulder.

What we had earned working through harvest was to be taxed by the lord of the manor, whose land we had worked. By the end of the two full seasons I had spent working in the Manor Montereau, I had enough to pay for one night at an inn, and maybe day's worth of travel. The evening that myself and the two other widowed servants climbed onto the back of a wagon headed to the nearby town, the manor celebrated harvest. Pulling away from the doors to the large house that sat in the woods, music from the celebration carried through the air on the autumn wind, accompanied by laughter and the smell of cooking meat from the kitchen. Passing by the homes of Anes and the other peasants, smoke billowed from their roofs as they prepared harvest meals of their own. The wagon hit a stone at an angle and the three of us on the back jumped, hitting the floor of the wagon roughly. It pulled me from my thoughts, but as the wagon turned onto the road, I could not take my eyes off of the glowing warmth from each building.


	27. Your Life Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Vagrants and Thieves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of these are gonna be a bit longer because things are wrapping up. Props if you're still with me, pardon the detour here but it's worth it... I think.

When we arrived in the town, the other women I had worked with in the fields quickly dispersed. I stood on the main road, reading the weathered signs, until I found the inn. L'Enseigne de l'Épée, the sign of the sword, I read. I pushed on the heavy door and it creaked open into the main hall of the inn. A few turned to look as I opened the door, but many stayed in their conversations, bent crookedly over rush light. I stood in the doorway for a moment before approaching the bar and paying the keep nearly half of what I had made over harvest. The two coins hitting the bar echoed in my hungry stomach. Hearing it's hungry growl, I placed one more down and asked for a meal with the night's stay.

I sat at the back of the tavern, my eyes curiously crossing the faces of the many men who filled it. Exhaustion and fear settled in for the first time since I had left Paris as I observed the expressions of the men in the tavern, twisted by the candlelight that flickered in front of their faces, obscured by the ale steins they poured over. With the bowl of pottage and bread in front of me, I found it hard to eat, but easily sucked down the stein that accompanied the meal. The ale hit my my empty stomach and I quickly felt the effect of the drink, which calmed my nerves a bit. I felt trapped, like a bug in a spider's web that I had weaved myself. The night wore on and the pile of melting fat from the rush light on my small tavern table grew larger as I grasped for options in my mind, solutions to problems.

Perhaps there was a manor in another nearby town I could use my remaining earnings to get to... but I wasn't sure where I was, or where there would be another town, and even if I could pay my way to it, if they would have work for me. I traced a circle on the table absently, focused on it. All night I had been ignoring the creeping sensation of being watched, as it was something I had grown far too used to, but by chance I looked up and caught the eye of a man who sat on the far side of the tavern. I recognized the stare as the feeling that had bitten at me all night, and my instincts suddenly told me I had been unsafe. Waiting for a moment to not rouse further suspicion, I stood and calmly walked up the stairs towards the tavern's chambers.

Reaching the top of the creaking wooden stairs, I turned into the room and closed the door, waiting beside the door frame and holding my breath. Sure enough, footsteps fell on each step and grew closer. Silently I pulled out my dagger, holding it upright, pointed at the doorframe just before the crack. As the door opened, I went to point it to the man, and instead of meeting his surprised eyes, I focused myself on the point of a dagger. I stepped back carefully and he followed, his dagger pointing at me, advancing as I retreated further into the room filled with empty beds. In French, I asked him.  
"What do you want?" and his eyes narrowed at me.  
"English?" he asked in response, to my surprise.  
"...Yes..." I responded, the two of us keeping our daggers held to one another's faces. I walked backwards as he came towards me until my back rested on the edge of the window in the far wall. As he approached, small amounts of moonlight from the closed wooden shutters illuminated his large frame, which towered over me, making him feel like a giant, he nearly touched the roof with his head. He was dressed in all black, a cloak hanging off of his broad shoulders.  
"Well, I want whatever you came here to sell, my dear." His accent was polished, but his face was unkept and his hair scraggly and shoulder length, and dark. Slivers of moonlight slipped in through the window, casting cold light on his dark blue eyes. Backed against the wall, I kept my blade on them, the steel reflecting the silver of the moon.  
"What do you mean?" I frowned.  
"There's only one reason why a woman would be alone, in a dirty thorpe tavern, late at night." Keeping his dagger pointed to my eyes, the man threw a pouch onto the bed that lay beside us, and I heard as coins inside rattled against each other. For a moment, I glanced to them, confused. Looking back into his eyes, they glinted in the moonlight and I understood. "I've never seen a whore with a dagger before, but I thought you looked different."  
"I am not a whore." I said sternly. The man came closer to me, inspecting my face, then glanced at my hand, wrapped in a bandage.  
"No, you're a peasant, from the fields. But now, the manor has thrown you out and you are alone and you are poor." He lowered his dagger and placed it back into its sheath which lay on his belt. "It's alright, I'll still pay you the same, though it's your first time..." He sat on the edge of the bed and folded his hands in his lap, his eyes smiling up at me, smugly. My dagger remained upright and I looked away from him, upset.

Selling myself had been something I was able to avoid in Paris, where working as a servant and exchanging stolen goods with Jaelle had been plentiful options to ensure I was never hungry for long. I was truly in a different world out in the small town, and as the man spoke this all came closing in on me. Slowly I lowered the dagger.  
"And how is it a man who speaks as you do, yet looks as you do, has come to hold such a heavy purse?" I asked suspiciously.  
"I am a man who takes what he wants, and does not leave time for much questioning..." he explained.  
"In short, a vagrant." I mused in response. He turned his hands up to the straw and mud roof of the inn and shrugged.  
"Vagrant's offers don't stand forever." He pulled his purse off the bed with one hand and stood up, moving towards the door. Panicked, I cried after him.  
"Wait!" I said. He stopped in his tracks and turned to me. I turned my dagger down and placed it back into its sheath, then unfastened its holder and placed them both on the edge of the bed, demonstrating to him I was unarmed. The moonlight cast over his eyes once again as he walked back towards the window.  
"Now, first..." Standing in front of me he reached behind me and untied the cowl which held my hair up. I felt as my hair unraveled, falling around my shoulders. This one action made me feel entirely different- revealed. The man took some hair into his strong hands and felt it. "Don't worry, I'll be nice." My heart beat nervously as he leaned in and inhaled deeply. He smelled of earth, and sweat, and steele. But having been so close to someone for the first time since I had left Paris, my eyes closed instinctively. As his lips met my neck, the smell of ale rose from them as well.

Being with him was different than it had been with other men. We both avoided one another's eyes, even as we lay intertwined, our skin pressed against one another. Though the man towered over me standing, his tall, strong legs fit together seamlessly with mine. His hands groped at me hungrily and in some ways each touch felt entitled to their grasp, like he was handling his coins themselves.  
It was difficult not to think of the last person I had been with, as so much with the strange man in the tavern was different from Clopin, whose hands had been demanding but hesitant- asking questions with their soft movements before they found their way across my skin. He had been strong, but smooth and rough, but gentle. The man in the tavern was all rough, and hard like the edges on his face. While he filled me with himself I kept my eyes tightly closed, holding onto his back and praying, almost in tears, that I didn't find myself with child. Once it was over, however, I found it a strange comfort to lay next to him on the uncomfortable straw mattress. His rugged demeanor had melted slowly as he had found his way into me, and now, sleeping with one arm draped over my side, his hand resting on my breast, he seemed almost peaceful.

I woke in the early morning, still accustomed to waking early on the manor, to his steady snores. Anxiously, my eyes shot open and I began to worry immediately. In such a small town, I was unsure how the innkeeper would react if he had known. Sliding out from under the arm of the man, I quickly dressed and tied my hair back into the linen cowl, rushing to put on my boots without waking the man. Then I stopped suddenly, thinking of his purse, and the payment he had promised. The man had been kind enough, even through his arrogance, but my mind went back to his words the night before. He was a man who took what he wanted... My eyes fell to his breaches which sat on a stool beside the bed. Carefully, I crept over to them, keeping my eyes on him as I went, my hand hanging over the hilt of my dagger. With great accuracy, I found I was not out of practice and easily I slid the purse from the belt and I watched as silently they fell into my hand. As slowly as I could, I left the room, keeping my eye on his sleeping form on the mattress.

My heart beat with exhilaration, moving quietly down the stairs to the inn. The tavern was empty save for a few who had fallen asleep at their tables, faces down near empty steins.

Swiftly, I left the tavern and walked down the empty road of the town towards the forest. I walked for half of the day through the trees, following a stream that ran next to the road for protection. It was only then after what felt like a lifetime of walking, that I saw a rider on the road. I ran up to them and darted in front of their horse, waving them down. Offering them a generous coin they had taken me by horse to a neighboring hamlet.

As we arrived that evening, the innkeeper of the second town's tavern, L'ostel de la Croix, frowned deeply as I asked for a night of lodging. He asked for double of what the former tavern had requested, and looked suspiciously at the coin I provided him from the man's stolen purse. The innkeeper had warned me, something along the lines of not wanting trouble and I had nodded, keeping to myself for the evening. Sitting in the tavern I watched the door fearfully as each guest entered and exit, fearing the sight of the man I had met the night before. On the second night, the innkeeper denied me a room, and when I protested, he demanded three times his fare from the night before. Reluctantly he accepted the coins that I produced begrudgingly, and I feigned unfazed as the stolen purse had grown alarmingly light.

Retiring to the chambers, I found that other men were already asleep in the room. I lay on the mattress all night, unable to sleep as I fixated on their breathing, and every sound they made caused me to jump. In the morning, I swiftly found one of their purses. It was significantly lighter than the purse of the vagrant's had been, and a twinge of guilt ran through me for this, but I took it anyway, sneaking out of the second inn the way I had come.

Weary from the lack of rest, I walked for the morning alongside the same stream that had brought me to the second town, only further down, away from it. The day had been sunny for the first time in the few days since I had left the manor. I moved out of the covered woods, which was cooler with the shade provided from the remaining leaves on the trees, to walk along the main road.

Suddenly I heard the furious beating of many hooves against the earth and turned to see several horses riding quickly towards me. I was unsure if they would be willing to stop, but I quickened my pace to a slight run in hopes that they would see me better. Turning around as I ran, the riders came into view and my eyes widened with fear, as the face of the vagrant from the tavern frowned down at me. I stopped running abruptly, turning to run into the forest for protection, but as they grew nearer the man swiftly reached down and grabbed the back of my dress, hoisting me up into the air and placing me in front of him on his horse.

"No!" was all I managed to say, now straddling his horse, with him behind me. I turned around and glanced into his dark blue eyes, which were as cold as a frozen sea. He glanced back at me quickly but kept his eyes on the road. I craned my neck around him to see the blurry figures of several men who rode behind him, staring intently on the road as well. The horse veered off of the main road and down a lightly worn path which led to a clearing. First the man who I rode with stopped, and then so did the men behind us, all dropping down to the earth. My breathing had become heavy, trying to steady my heart. The man, who I had called a vagrant, reached between my legs and felt for the dagger I kept strapped to it. He pulled it from its sheath and pointed it to me.  
"I feel as though I have handsomely overpaid for your services." He thrust the dagger forward a bit and I winced.

The man then tossed the dagger to one of the other horsemen who stood in front of their horses, grins plastered on their faces from beneath cowls and hats. His rough hands groped at my sides as he padded me down, looking for additional weapons, but glancing at me from the corner of his eye as he did so. He then lifted me up once again and lowered me into the hands of one of the other men, who guided me to my feet roughly. I backed away from the horse and turned to run but one of the bandits stood in front of me, hand lingering over his sword.  
"How did you-" I began, but was interrupted as the man slid off of his horse after me.  
"How did I find a sole, run away, girl-thief on foot, in a country she does not belong to, on roads she does not know? My dear, you give yourself too much credit." He pulled his sword out and pointed it at me. "Though courageous, your actions were foolish." He stared down at me.  
"I thought it was something you would have done." I responded coldly.  
"As I'm sure you know... a thief does not like to be stolen from." he stared angrily into my eyes. The words sounded all too familiar.  
"I didn't-"  
"Please. You have shamed me enough, in front of my own men." He moved closer to me once again. I reached into my tunic and produced both of the sacks of coins I had amassed, throwing them down at his feet. The man stopped at them and smiled.  
"Why thank you." Picking them up, he noticed the weight to his own. "It seems you have taken your fare already." He tossed the purse to one of his men who caught it in a gloved hand. "Count it." He ordered. The man pulled the coins from it and dropped them one by one back into the purse.  
"Half." he said, tossing it back to the tall man, dressed in all black. The face of the vagrant feigned impressed.  
"My, my. It all does add up. Now from what I had initially offered, that would add up to at least three nights with you, wouldn't it?" He was all at once very close to me and I sighed deeply. The man then paused and looked to his men, there were four of them, each who looked on at the scene eagerly. "Perhaps you should also repay what you owe us." The point of his sword hit my belly and I shuddered. He studied my expression and I looked away from him, sadly.

After a moment, he pulled his sword away, moving to fill the space between us with his own form. In the light, his face looked more worn than it did in the darkness of the tavern- his face, paler and more sunken in. A faded scar crossed his face in a scarlet streak and his dark hair, and all black clothes, made him appear that much more sinister than in the darkness of the night. "Or, perhaps we should just take it from you, and leave you, flayed, in these woods." his words slid around my throat and gripped it tightly, forcing me to swallow heavily beneath its imaginary grip.

"Or.. keep you, as my own." He said this, his breath low and deep, close enough to me that I feared he could hear my heart racing in my chest. This made me glance up into his dark blue eyes as he towered over me. "I'm not sure which you would hate most..." he said this in a voice so low I was sure only I could hear it. His eyes searched my face, and I tried to read his. If it had been anyone else, I would have been on my knees, begging and crying, pleading with them to keep my life. But I was sure if I had done so, I would have met a grim end. So I stood my ground and summoned a voice with any semblance of strength to it that I could find.

"If you find me a passage into England I can give you-" The man interrupted me again, with a scoff.  
"What could a peasant girl give me?" His voice had begun to sound irritated. "Not that I can actually find you passage to that miserable wench of a Country, who has me stuck here with the rest of you." I sighed deeply.  
"Valuables, from the manors. That is how I lived there before..." I trailed off, but the man's face had already twisted into a genuinely impressed expression.  
"Well... is that so..." he said pensively, staring up into the blue sky. He glanced back at his men and nodded slightly with his head. The man who held my dagger tossed it back to me and it landed at my feet, then they mounted the saddles of their horses and one by one began to ride away. My eyes widened as they rode off, leaving me and my dagger in the pile of leaves that coated the forest floor.

The man walked towards his horse facing me. "Sadly I don't think we can be of help to you, my dear." he said, mounting his horse as well.  
"Wait!" I cried out, but as I did so one of his men rode up beside me and grabbed me from behind once again, pulling me onto his horse. I sat behind the man, gripping my dagger in one hand, and holding tightly onto his side with the other. The dark blue eyes of the bandit flashed as we rode beside him. "But I believe I know of a place you could prove quite useful.." he said, an arrogant smile crossing his face.

We rode through the rest of the day and as the walls of Paris appeared in the distance, the sun had begun to set. The men turned off the road and into a dark part of the forest. They set up camp and lit a fire, and I sat nearby it with them trying to ignore their drunken conversations. My mind tossed over the concerns I had from my new predicament. I wasn't sure what he man had meant by knowing a place for me. I worried that the man had intended to bring me to Paris, and turn me in to the guards. But no, he couldn't have done that, he was an outlaw... wasn't he?

As it turned dark, the group of bandits began to fall asleep, leaving the fire to burn to ash in front of them. I shivered by the burning embers, watching as they faded into darkness, until a figure stood in my path. Following the legs up, my eyes settled on the sharp features of the man who towered above me. The black leather of his hands appeared in front of my face, offered up to me. I glanced at him for a moment longer before gently lowering mine on top of his. As his fingers closed around them, I saw how large they were, how they engulfed mine. He pulled me to my feet, and I tilted my head to maintain eye contact.

"You will lay with me tonight." his rough voice sounded in the darkness, and he began to lead me with my hands, but I resisted, smiling at his arrogance.  
"Who are you?" I asked. The man stopped and turned towards me.  
"You haven't met too many vagrants, have you?" he asked. My mind flashed to the Romany people, and I wondered if he knew of them- if he would consider them vagrants as well. Something about him made me weaken, his voice sounding so much like mine, the first Englishman I had spoken to in quite some time, yet I tried to pick up on his accent as he spoke but struggled to do so.  
"None who speak like you..." I frowned up at his face as he stared down at me. Now, as he guided me away from the fire and his sleeping men, I relaxed and allowed myself to be lead. The air was cooler here, away from the other warm bodies and the small amount of warmth from their dying fire. I shivered and he pulled me close.

Despite his unsettling appearance- his dark, gloomy eyes sat in the midsts of his intense face, and everything from his large and arched nose to his jaw was sharp and slightly crooked, worn from battle- there was a charm about the man. Towering above me, dressed in all black, with dark waves hugging the sides of his face, he might have even appeared frightening had I not already seen him as I did that night. Moments flashed through my mind; beads of sweat pooling on his forehead as faint shades of pink crossed his otherwise pale face. This was part of why I had relaxed, sleeping next to him that night. Being with him felt like walking into the den of a black bear, with equal parts danger and protection.

His hands found their way up my back and I felt as they gripped at the sides of my dress, trying to slide it off my shoulders. The pleasant dropping feeling in my stomach followed but I stopped his hands.  
"Tell me your name." I said quietly, holding his wrists in their place on my shoulders. The man paused before deciding to answer me.  
"My name is Owain." He responded, his fingers pulling at the front of my dress, letting it fall open.  
"Do you want to know-" I had begun to ask him, but his hand was at the side of my face, and the corner of his thumb, still dressed in leather, rested on my lip, silencing me.  
"No." Was his response, his mouth now on top of mine. I realized as our lips opened into one and his tongue found its way to mine that while we had found every other part of each other's bodies that night, we did not kiss. His mouth pressed to mine made me feel the way I had thought they would- I felt safe, but that something dangerous was happening around me at the same time, wrapped in the cool cloth of his arms.

The vagrant man lay me down on my back and slid my dress off of my shoulders. Across his back, dark red scars clawed along his muscles as they tensed. I had only been able to feel them in the darkness of the tavern, but even beneath the trees, the clear autumn moon fell across his broad and muscular shoulders and I saw the angry lines running down to beneath his breaches. He kissed across my skin, stopping at each of my breasts, causing ripples of pleasurable chills up and down my flesh. As we writhed on the cold earth, the friction and heat between us would warm me as the cool leaves which poked through our clothes, piled underneath us, would cause small shivers, awakening each part of my body once again. I clung to his back as he rhythmically entered me and withdrew, eyes blurry with sweat as I dreamily stared through the bare branches of the trees and up into the cloudy, moonlit sky.

In the morning I rode with Owain and another man for most of the day to a road that opened onto the bridge to cross the river into Paris. Owain moved his horse next to the other and the man pulled me over onto his. I frowned, feeling the shift in safety from Owain behind me to the bandit who I did not know sitting in front. Suddenly Paris was so close, and yet now, I wasn't sure if I wanted to return anymore, my stomach dropping with a hunger that surprised me. Jaelle's words filled my mind again and I breathed deeply, looking up to catch the bandit's deep blue eyes watching me as I sat with the man.

"There is a tavern in the city, the innkeeper is in debt to us. You don't have to sell yourself to work there, though you will do much better for yourself if you did. Aistan here will take you to where it is." He explained, his expressions proving illegible. "For a thief- the clientele will certainly keep you busy, and the keep will allow you to stay if you do well enough for her." Owain's horse restlessly stepped underneath him and he stopped to steady the dark steed for a moment.

"I won't keep what you make for the inn to repay what you have stolen, both from my purse, and my pride. Only if, when I am visiting the tavern you are mine." his words brought heat to my face and I looked away, biting at my lip to stop it from spreading into a smile. "I will be there soon. Good luck." He titled his head down in a gesture before kicking at his horse. As he did so, Aistan, the man who I sat with kicked at his horse as well, which began to run towards the bridge in the distance. I glanced at Owain's broad shoulders as they disappeared down the road, and turned back towards the distant stone walls that surrounded Paris.


	28. Trust No Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sign of the Sun

L'Enseigne du Soleil was the ale house that Owain had his bandit accomplice deliver me to. It was a dirty and well worn tavern that hosted one room for travelers. The innkeep was a woman named Richeut, a widow who had inherited the business from her husband. Richeut met Aistan as he walked into the door of the tavern the evening we had arrived in Paris. Entering the city through the stone walls had been nerve racking as a new experience, once I had arrived in Paris on the river I had not travelled outside the city gates until hidden in the back of a wagon the year before. King's guards stood on either side of the high arches that broke up the towering walls of the city. Their helmets had been pulled down over their eyes, but I felt as they surveyed each person who entered and exited by foot from under their metal hoods.

The rain had begun not long before we approached the gates, and Aistan and I both pulled the cloak of our hoods over our cowls. I was apprehensive about returning through the large entrance into the city, but once I saw the crowds of merchants and peasants who passed through with ease I had felt reassured. It had now been far too long since I had been in Paris, I was sure there was no way of being detected. I had still held close to the man who sat in front of me, silently, as we passed by the guards, their stillness causing me unease.

I watched as Richeut started at my feet and made her way up to my face, Aistan leaning over and speaking in her ear overtop of the sounds of the tavern. I looked around at the well-worn space, and at the faces of city men who drank there. Young women sat on the benches with them, laughing and flirting, their long and beautiful hair worn around their shoulders proudly. I became self conscious about the cowl I wore, having gotten used to life as a peasant and a servant, and my fingers itched to take it off, but I remained still. I stood just inside the main door as Richeut shook her head to Aistan but gestured me over.

"Un ami de la Main Rouge?" She asked, raising an eye skeptically. I frowned at her, she had asked if I was a friend of Red Hand.  
"Qui?" I blinked in response, frowning.  
The woman clicked her tongue and looked away, to which Aistan only smiled and placed his hand on her shoulder."Merci Madame." He said to her, and turned to me. "Good luck." He tipped his head to me and took his stein of ale from the tavern, walking off to join a table of people, leaving Richeut and I alone. She stared at me for a moment longer with an eyebrow raised before calling to a woman in the tavern.

"Osane!" As she cried out, a woman with long dark hair turned from a table she sat at with two men. Richeut nodded at her and the girl's eyes looked to me before she nodded back slightly. Richeut gestured at me to follow her to the back of the tavern, and then, speaking only in French, began to explain the tavern and the duties, starting with the bandit in the forest who had been responsible for bringing me there.

"Your friend..." she began, inspecting me from the corner of her eye. "He's not just an outlaw. He's a mercenary, he's known to your kind as Owain Lawgoch, but here is Yvain de Galles, or red hand." her French stumbled over the old English word. I frowned as she spoke, following her outside the tavern onto a small court with a horse, a pig pen and some hens roosting.

Lawgoch had sounded familiar, but I wasn't sure why. "His claim is to be the last son of the kings of your Gwynedd, outlawed from your country for treason, having attempted to invade the Welsh." she explained with a bit of a laugh. My stomach ran cold and I stopped slightly in my tracks. I thought about his curious English accent, and about the scars that covered his back. Some part of it made my heart flutter wildly, thinking about being wrapped around the tall man just the night before, and of his hidden identity. Richeut saw I had stopped and turned to me.

"Now, don't get too excited. The fool has lost all that he had to the claim. And now look at him- picking up servant girls in the forest, ambushing merchants like a bandit." her voice cracked as she stared at me, an amused look in her eye. "Yvain is the King of fools to me. He chose this, not born to it, like we have been."

We had continued walking, and found ourselves at a shack in the courtyard, where sleeping goats took up the main floor, they blinked at us, waking as we approached. A loft sat above them with straw falling out from every possible place."You sleep up there with the others. You can stay here as long as you can pay one sou a week. I don't care how you get it as long as you pay me. Then you help the other girls with brewing- have you brewed ale before?" I shook my head, no. Richeut huffed a bit."Well you'll have to learn. For now go inside and bring out the barrel behind the keep." she instructed. I tried to thank her, but Richeut waved my hand away and turned to go back to the tavern.

The sign of the sun saw a wide range of guests. Some came every night to drink until they would fall asleep at their benches, arms crossed over plates of pottage, others would fall asleep in front of the tavern and as we rouse in the morning, the sour smell of the barley roasting in the back with the other barrels of brew. Myself or one of the other girls would help them up- if they weren't sitting in a pile of their own food and drink.

There were two other young women who worked for Richeut, Osane, who was her only daughter, and Gilia, whose parents had left her with Richeut when she was just fourteen. I had come to understand what Owain had meant by selling myself at the tavern having been a more profitable approach, as I learned that even as a thief in a dirty tavern, I still had to share my earnings with a complex network of thieves in Paris. Each week as I paid Richeut, I also had to provide payment to men who I had never met. Richeut told me this was to keep anyone from targeting us specifically, but I had also come to learn that by operating an ale house, Richeut was fairly independent, earning more than a mason for her services in addition to what we contributed.

With the fees to Richeut and payment to protective services of other supposed thieves in the city, I found I was making less than I had been working as a turtledove. Gilia and Osane still had to pay most of their earnings to Richeut, but as they had been there longer, their fees seemed to be less- though I hadn't asked. They seemed pleased that I stayed away from the guests, though each night, the propositions from the drunken visitors felt as though they increased. The longer I stayed there they grew more and more irresistible each time. Sometimes, the sweet faces of young soldiers would stare up at me, or at one of the other girls, and offer us no more than their handsome company, and a softness would take over my heart. Osane would laugh in their face, linking her arm into mine and pulling me away, and a feeling like an arrow would hit my chest. Osane spoke often, late in the night, about a knight she had met once at the tavern, who had taken her as her lover. He had placed a ring of wildflowers around her finger one night before he left for war and promised to be married.

At the end of three long years he had returned with a new bride, leaving Osane heartbroken, still working at her mother's inn."Ne fait pas confiance à l'amour." she whispered, sitting at the edge of the loft, late one night, her leg dangling off of the edge. Trust no love, she had told me.

The story made me think of Owain, who had yet to arrive at the tavern after sending me there, as he had said he would. In spite of my mind and heart begging me not to, I also thought back to Clopin. My thoughts never stopped being with him, but it felt as though longer stretches of time went by in which he would stay from my mind. His dark brown eyes, the smell of his skin, felt more and more like a sweet reprieve in a long nightmare. Somehow I knew he was no longer in the city, I almost sensed it, but after some time, I had begun to notice the differences. Since returning to Paris, I hadn't seen Romany caravans in the markets, entertaining children and not long after I had returned to the city, I had purposefully walked by the door in which Jaelle had always met me in front, with her cart, to exchange wares.

The door had been long boarded up, and new merchant stood in front of it every day selling fabrics, like it had never been there at all. Late one night, as late fall had begun to turn into winter, I lay awake in the loft, hearing the gentle bleating of the goats below. The finality of everything weighed heavy on my chest, and I wondered what had happened to everyone, to the court of miracles, and the Romany people. My thoughts turned to Owain Lawgoch, the red-hand, as I had heard him called in the tavern- the vagrant with a claim to the throne of Wales. If he had intended to return at all, I tried to imagine going with him, back across the sea, but the future hid behind a blanket of fog and doubt.

If Owain succeeded in reclaiming his throne, what use would he have for me? He would be able to undo his exile as outlaw, but I would still have been a peasant... a thief. Maybe, at best, his kept whore in the tavern, who would wait for him to return longingly. One night I heard a story from a mercenary bandit, like Owain himself, who came to the tavern from Guernsey. The man sat with Gilia on his lap, and Osane leaning on the table next to him dreamily, listening to his many stories. As he began to tell one of the Lawgoch son, I moved closer to their table and sat at the edge of the bench furthest from the man. There had been a story that in Guernsey, if you dug under the hazel bush at the right hour, steps to a cave would be revealed to you. Here, a man, seven feet tall with a red right hand was sleeping.  
"This," the man said, eyes sparkling with enchantment "is Owain Lawgoch, who sleeps until until the appointed time. When he wakes, he will be King of the Britons." The man said, causing Gilia and Osane to smile.  
"That old vagrant with the scar?" Gilia laughed.  
"This is the legend, my dear." The man had said wisely, and I felt Richeut's eyes on me from near the counter.

Osane's words stayed in my mind "trust no love". And maybe she was right, if what I had with these men had even been love. I couldn't keep waiting for him.

After that night I found it easier to keep Clopin and Owain both from my mind, having learned to brew the ale for the tavern, which had given me a task to do every few days that required concentration and skill. My nights were spent working in the tavern, sometimes cleaning out the house of travelers who were passing through, who we would never see again. After Gilia, Osane or Richeut would be paid, I would take what was left of their purse, or any valuables I could find. From working alone, with the many risks posed to both working for Romany and thief as a woman, I found working at the tavern to be the safest I had felt. I fought hard against myself to not slip into comfort as each day passed, finding things, suddenly, as settled as I thought they could be for me.

I tried my best to keep these feelings of contentment from the front of my mind, fearing they would somehow be my demise, and one fateful day, this proved to be true. Richeut had sent me to the market with her purse in order to buy some ingredients for the tavern. Usually either Gilia or Osane would accompany me, but today, I found myself alone. Walking through the crowded streets I passed beggars with limps and bandages over their eyes. These were the same beggars who would stand up and walk briskly to the tavern at nightfall- but still, held out their hands to me. I had been thinking about my change in fortune; silently I thanked the great wheel, which Jaelle had told me was a Romany myth responsible for all fates on earth. Leaving one merchants stall and moving towards another, a sound behind me had caused me to turn over my shoulder. Just beyond the merchant stand, a man stood looking out on the crowd.

My blood ran cold as I realized I stared into the face of Danoir, Clopin's nephew. I had never turned my neck so fast before, and it made my heart race, afraid it had drawn more attention to myself than I had hoped. With one item left to retrieve, I made my way through the crowd briskly. If I could complete this one final purchase, I could cross to the other side of the market and leave. Barely aware of my surroundings, I believe that I had made it to the merchant's cart. But as I had pulled out Richeut's purse, as if from nowhere, a hand grasped it from my left, pulling it out from my fingers. I turned to see who it had been, but felt as their cloth ran swiftly across my back to the other side of me, like a gust of wind.

"Oy!" I yelled at them, seeing their back run through the many people, and jumping immediately into a run.

My heart could barely take the second scare so close to seeing Danoir, but I kept my eyes on them, determined, even as the merchant yelled after me for not leaving them without their coin. The figure darted each way, turning down a narrow alley way. I sprinted after them, feeling faster and stronger than I had in a long time, partially worried about Richeut's purse, as well as my own reputation as a thief for the tavern.

The figure stopped in an empty back street and stared at me blankly; it was a young boy, with tanned skin and bright green eyes. I frowned at him, catching up, but before I could meet with him, he dropped the purse to the ground and ran in the opposite direction. Out of breath, I stopped at the purse and curiously looked after him. I had known many street thieves in Paris, but none who would drop a purse unless they had been physically caught. Hoping to make it back to the tavern, I stopped questioning the strange events and bent down to pick it up. A leather boot stepped onto the purse before I could, and the blood drained from my face once more. I followed it up to the face of Danoir and groaned.  
"You..." I said, my eyes narrowing. He tilted his head and opened his hands.  
"And you..." his voice returned, pained.  
We stood there staring at one another. I tried to interpret his gaze but could not. Finally, he spoke.  
"You... are not supposed to be here." he kept his foot firmly on the purse. I stood up straight to meet his eyes.  
"You are supposed to be in Spain." I countered, his eyes narrowed this time, and he looked away.  
"I wouldn't concern yourself with our people any longer, you have brought us enough trouble."

This caused me a genuine laugh, the both of us blinked in surprise as it left my lips.  
"Maybe you should have killed me when you had the chance then?" I said.  
"If only..." he replied. Seeing him brought back memories, my ankle almost felt as though it throbbed in my boot as they flooded my mind. "But you are none of our concern any longer, I only ever wanted you away from us. You brought us too much danger, gadjianke. And to Clopin..." Danoir trailed off. The mention of his name caused a hot chill that rose through my stomach.  
"Please, don't... tell him..." I said quietly. Danoir's eyes snapped back to me.  
"Clopin has been gone from this city for a long time, and you have been long forgotten to us."  
The heavy sinking feeling took over my chest as I took a deep breath and reached towards Richeut's purse on the ground. I flicked at his muddy boot with my fingers to get it off. Slowly he lifted it and I snatched the purse back.  
"Farewell, then." I said, a dry lump forming in my throat.  
To my surprise Danoir grabbed my sleeve and held me there for a moment, staring into my eyes.  
"Farewell, thief." his voice was cold, but the glimmer of amusement and mischief that had played in his eye when we had first met had returned. The dryness in my throat still hung heavily, but seeing this look again almost caused me to smile. It seemed as though this was the closest he could come to any form of kindness. I nodded slowly at him and turned to leave.


	29. Putsi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hand and The Pocket

Clopin stood on the rotted beams of the hollow structure that sat built above the entrance to the court of miracles, looking out over Paris. It was cold, late into winter. Spring, like the fading bright red beams of sun that disappeared behind the cluttered skyline, still seemed like a desperate, distant wish. Clopin shivered to himself. He had found himself in these rafters so many times before, they had come to be a solace. But today, the quickly diminishing light and the gentle cooing of the birds above caused a reverberating hollowness. Clopin felt as empty as the building. As empty as the Court of Miracles and the many twisting corridors that lay connected underneath it. Despite a summer rife with struggle, majority of the Romani from the Court arrived safely in Spain with their brothers in the South. Perhaps it was still living and breathing the air of the Court, passing through the same concealed passages in Paris that placed him so close to the sadness. Not all had made it. 

Many had disappeared somewhere along the way, the dead horses and caravan wheels found by others on the long and empty roads and years of painful memories all that was left of them. Clopin shivered again. Something about the past year had been cursed. The loss, the pain. Even the hope and beauty he had once found, had become infected with a crushing sadness. He wanted nothing more than to leave, for there was nothing left for him in Paris. Vadoma had assumed her position in Spain and, as to their agreement, Clopin had fallen back into the shadows of leadership for his people. He had vowed to remain in Paris until all had made it safely, and now they had. What lay before him was unclear. A long and silent road with to meet them with Danoir, who hadn't so much as looked at his uncle since the day he had found out that that the girl...

A shivering exhale followed that thought. Her existence circled his mind constantly as he considered how terribly... alone... he had felt as the Court had emptied out throughout the past several months. Clopin would wait for the thought to appear and then watch as it slipped through his hands as he attempted to grasp it, extinguish it, hide it. Like chasing shadow puppets, it always would. The worst had been that her name had left him, months and months before. He felt the distance, either a sense of her light having been put out or that it had otherwise moved... far away. And in spite of all of the emptiness, for many days and nights he had found some sense of peace. And then... late into the fall. A story began to be passed through the thieves who had bringing supplies to the Romany for the pilgrimage. A story of an outlaw... an infamous outlaw... and a girl. An English girl. Ever since the story had reached him, he had been tormented by the thoughts again. They suffocated him, that thick smoke he had all but cleared away, returning and filling him up once again. The bell tolled, breaking his thought. Torches began to be lit and left out, the sun having almost completely left the sky. A spotted grey and white bird swooped towards the window in the dark blue of night and fluttered its wings as it landed on the ledge in front of him. One of its feet was nothing more than a gnarled stump that it leaned on, clumsily. In spite of himself and the heavy mood he lightly smiled at it. It looked back at him, curiously. It's black eyes just barely showing him his own lonely reflection. He offered his empty hand and the bird softly pecked at his worn gloves, attempting to locate some food.

"I'm sorry, I have nothing for you." The bird suddenly took off towards the rafters, joining in an eruption fluttering of wings. A few stray feathers softly fell down and Clopin blinked up at them, following one with his eyes. It landed on a small mound just in front of him. Peering into the darkness, Clopin managed to make out the form of a bird-- bald and newborn, twisted on the dirty floor. It's stubby, naked wings pressed gracelessly against the splintered planks of wood, it's tiny mouth open in a helpless yawn. He approached it, noting its lifelessness. This is something Jaelle would have called an omen. Clopin sighed away the thought of the old woman, reminding himself of the last time that she had spoken to him as well. 

"She is dead to you now." He repeated to himself. The birds above unceremoniously sat still as his only witnesses. Clopin silently left a thought with the sad creature that lay before him and the short life that had ended abruptly. He turned and left the empty building, vowing to not return again.

The still and silent Court had been transformed into a crypt. Only a few tents remained with only several of the Romany men left. Besides Danoir and Clopin himself, they were all very old and had remained to finalize the exodus from the closest thing to a consistent home they had had for much of their lives. They had tucked themselves into the tents that sparsely populated the space for the night, which had begun to feel far too large and quiet. Clopin paced towards the center of the Court. A faint light was emerging from a catacomb along the far wall. Clopin paid it no mind, walking swiftly towards his own tent. 

"Uncle..." The voice called out. Clopin stopped, mostly out of shock. He turned to his nephew who held a torch ahead of himself.  
"Danoir..." Clopin responded. As Danoir grew near, Clopin saw as his expression shifted quickly. In that moment, Danoir looked so much like Clopin's older brother. It was one of the few things Clopin remembered of him. But it was a look of unease, a look that would pass his face as his demeanor changed before bringing you bad news. It had been months since Clopin had spoken to his nephew, and now this look.  
"Have you news from the last of those who crossed to Spain?"  
"I have not. It should be any day now... and then we will leave..." Clopin studied his face, which he hid behind his torch. Danoir nodded, distracted. "This is all you've asked?" 

Danoir looked up quickly. "Yes, um... Clopin."  
"Very well..." Clopin turned and began to walk towards his tent. "If there's nothing else to report, then."  
"There were doves." Danoir's voice, small and tired and nothing like Danoir's voice, came from behind him. Clopin stopped.  
"Doves?"  
"In the market. I saw them... today." 

Clopin turned back to his nephew. "Yes... I should expect so..." He searched the darkness for a symptom of understanding, but Danoir stood in place, staring, blankly.  
"Goodnight, uncle."  
Danoir turned abruptly and the night soon swallowed his faint torch light.  
"...Doves." Clopin repeated to himself. "Doves." He slowly went to turn back to his tent. A flash of heat radiated up his arm and he grimaced as he gripped it. Clopin pressed his eyebrows together, his mind a tight weave of sudden thoughts. Then, his face smoothed and his arm relaxed. He turned quickly to his tent and began to frantically undress, throwing aside the deep, royal purples and replacing them with plain grey and black.

Carefully he removed his dark purple mask and stared at it, almost spitefully. To wear it into the outside world after all of this time would likely rouse more suspicion. Clopin's face had been known to some, many who wanted him killed. And at once this had mattered to him, once when the lives of his people and his own life felt as though they were so intertwined. Romany were a community, a way of life. They revered outsiders. Suddenly, Clopin had felt like he no longer had anything to lose, like a ghost who was left to haunt the Court forever. "A life for a life..." He said under his breath and placed his mask down onto his bed. 

Clopin had seldom left the Court in months. In fact, he had been told not to. But there was no one left to endanger but himself and the dread that stepping out onto the frozen street that night was overpowered with a different threat. It was possible... She was there, somewhere, in that city. It explained the feelings that had returned, blazing and ripping at his insides after he had heard the story... about Yvain. Yvain. The sign of the Sun, of course. Angry thoughts passed back and forth through his mind. _Your prisoner escaping... She was never yours... In his possession... That foolish, beast of an outlaw... That stupid girl... At least she's still alive._ His fist clenched as they passed by, he desperately searched for a clear mind as he tried to retrace his steps safely to the tavern where he knew that Lawgoch brought his business. Clopin shivered as he walked, unable to even tell if he was being careful the closer he got to the Inn. Was he relieved or was he furious? He just needed to see for himself... he just wanted to decide before he arrived at--

The worn symbol of a bright sun painted into the crude wooden sign was before him, and his mind cleared suddenly as he had hoped. He stood for a moment, the cold night air brushing across his face, before stepping into the warmth of the tavern. The vulnerability of his appearance washed over him and he quickly slipped in between the crowded tables and strangers before anyone's eyes fell to him. Seated at the back, hunched between old drunken men who laughed to one another, he dared to begin to look around the busy room.

There were two young girls. One stood with the older woman, minding the keep. The other sat with a table of young men, smiling and hanging off their every word. _So this is what you would be doing here..._ he shook the bitter thought from his mind. There was someone else there with him, a soft voice that shook its head. It tried to speak "She is dead--" but Clopin silenced it. Still, somehow it managed to be louder than everything else. The woman who had been behind the bar was standing in front of him. She was beautiful, her face full and her eyes bright. Like all of the women he had met at taverns and inns, he tried not to look into them for too much longer. She was asking him if he wanted something. 

Clopin's hand discreetly searched the pocket of the drunk man, half asleep, beside him. It graced the cloth of the bottom without finding anything else. Clopin smiled.  
"Ale, please. It would be courtesy of Yvain de Galles." The man's name pushed uncomfortably through his mouth and the woman frowned but nodded at him and disappeared. Clopin watched the three women. The younger one went to the older one behind the bar and gestured towards him. The older woman glanced at Clopin who smiled and tipped his hat in her direction. Scowling, the older woman nodded. 

"He said it was courtesy of Lawgoch." Gilia said quietly. Richeut nodded to her.  
"Well, if we ever see the man again we can inquire as to why he is setting up unpaid fare across the country. Let's pray he's not dead."  
"This man seems..." Gilia looked back towards Clopin, looking away quickly. "Familiar. Somehow."  
"I'd keep you and Osane away, I trust his pockets are mighty thin." Gilia nodded and poured the strange man a beer.

The night had worn on, filthy and dark as the tavern was. Knocking back the second of his steins, Clopin's hungry stomach turned inside. The ale had made him lightheaded, his face hot. Danoir had been mistaken... or, Clopin had been mistaken that the girl had found herself in the company of Lawgoch at all. He glanced at the man next to him, who now lay snoring on the table he sat at.The softest voice inside of him was quiet. He grew hot again, either from ale or shame. _Why did you come here_? He glanced back to the three women who worked at the Sign of the Sun, and quietly resigned himself to failure. The cold and hollow feeling took him over again. 

A clatter of dishes sounded across the room and a door at the back of the tavern opened. Clopin wearily looked toward it, when the heat from his face froze in place. Victoria stepped into the tavern, her hair neatly in plats, her cheeks pink from the cold. It took Clopin a moment to really see her, the drink, the dark, the soft and not so soft voices all swirling through his mind. She looked... unfamiliar. Her face was clean, and bright. It had grown almost as full as the other girl's at the tavern. Her cheeks were no longer sunken in, hungry and sad. She smiled at the older woman who ushered her to remove her cloak. The girl declined, gesturing back out to the courtyard. Clopin had never seen the girl smile before. His stomach turned, violently. His chest tightened. Clopin struggled to remain frozen, staring at her as long as he could, his eyes drinking her in as though he had been parched and left for dead every day before this one. But his stomach tossed and turned like a shipwreck and he felt suddenly very ill. He stumbled to his feet, trying to invoke an air of grace. The drunken man awoke and glanced up at him. Clopin swept by him, silently, and back out into the night. 

Outside of the Sign of the Sun, Clopin's empty stomach wretched. He held it in, but when it wretched again he watched as his two steins spilled out onto the street in front of him. Clopin shuddered, the taste of the drink and his own guts now stuck in his mouth. 

"Well, what have we here?" A cool, sharp voice sounded. Clopin looked up, wiping sweat from his freezing brow. His stomach wretched again, violently and he gagged. The tall man dressed all in black laughed. "I thought your kind were supposed to be able to hold your drink, your majesty?" Owain stepped down from his towering black steed, and two men behind him followed suit.  
"And I thought you would have been killed by now, but here we are..." Clopin muttered.  
"Yes, here we are... and what, might I ask, brings you up from the catacombs?"  
"What brings you to Paris?" Clopin stepped towards the man, Owain glared with an air of respect. "None of your business." Clopin concluded. Owain smiled at him.  
"I suppose it's not, no." He moved aside for the King of the Romany people in Paris to pass by him. "Well... thank you for your patronage. I don't expect I'll have many more opportunities to cross paths again. Safest of travels to you and your people." Owain tied his horse up and stepped towards the door. Clopin reached a hand out, instinctively. He grasped onto the thick cloth of his Owain's shirt.  
"Red Hand..." He began, slowly. Owain glanced at Clopin's slender, gloved grip. "Tell me of the English thief who bested you." Owain's amused face fell for a moment, and then he smiled. The pink that stained Owain Lawgoch's pale white face from the cold seemed to darken for a moment.  
"I'm not sure I can. Whatever you heard is true. She... is highly skilled, to say the least. Too much so for me, or any man." Owain looked back up to Clopin whose expression had fallen entirely. It took the mercenary back. Finally, Clopin released the man's shirt.  
"So I have... heard." He said, quietly.  
"Is there something you'd like me--" "She needs to leave. She's not safe here." Clopin's voice sounded as though it was thrown to the bottom of a well. Owain glanced behind him to his men who disappeared into the tavern.

"I didn't realize you were acquainted."  
"We're not."  
"Is there something I should know--"  
"No. Make sure she leaves. Or I will find you again, Lawgoch." Owain frowned at Clopin as he slowly walked away, his cloaked figure disappearing into the night.

Once out of view of the tavern, Clopin wretched again. He held onto the cold stone of a wall next to him, his heart caught up to him, racing in his chest. He at once tried to stop the image of the tall and crooked outlaw that had just been beaming down on him, the face of Frollo, Victoria in the cell that night, screaming as her hand was crushed in the gate of the cell. Now he was shaking, the world spinning around him. He had to find the broken building, the Court. Danoir. There was a long period of blackness, the world had closed in on him. The girl, laying in front of him, face twisted into pleasure. He saw her, laid out on a rack in Frollo's dungeon. He saw her at the tavern, smiling. He saw the dead nestling from earlier. 

By the time he found himself in the catacombs he was dragging his shoulder along one of the winding, endless corridors in the dark to keep himself on his feet. He finally fell out into the court and lay on his back, staring up into nothingness. Moments later, his nephew peered over him and began to drag him back to his tent.  
"Why did you tell me?" He muttered. Danoir helped Clopin onto his back.  
"Did you see her." He asked, coldly.  
"Yes." Clopin gagged again.  
"Did she see you?"  
"No."  
"Good... Did anyone else notice you?"  
Clopin coughed and gagged once more, reaching into his mouth and procuring a small, black seed from it. He stared at it, curiously.  
"Let me see that." Danoir pulled the seed out of Clopin's fingers and examined it.  
"Nephew... Danoir... Why?"  
"They poisoned you. Well, it's mild... You'll live. Clever of them though. How did you manage to get poisoned?"  
"Why did you... tell me." Clopin turned over onto his side, his eyes shutting.  
"I don't know. I wish I hadn't... Because now--"  
Danoir searched for a word, but Clopin interrupted. "Something bad is going to happen. I've never felt like this before... I saw something... and I can feel it..." Clopin's voice was getting quieter and quieter as he fought against sleep.

Danoir watched his uncle's chest rise and fall for a moment before turning and leaving his tent.


	30. Red Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outlaw Red Hand

The evening that followed my encounter with Danoir, I returned to the tavern and put everything into the stores. I stopped in the tavern to report back to Richeut before immediately beginning to tend to the errands in the courtyard. The changing of the ale casks took most of the evening. I sat beside them, hunched over a small fire just in front of the loft where we slept. The cold and the long nights weakened my mind. It drifted, quietly, like the laughter and the music from inside the tavern drifted on the winter air. It settled on Danoir and the market. Danoir and the Court. The night Danoir and Rhoda tried to help me escape. That was the night... it was the most Clopin had ever spoken to me. Even then, my face grew flush as I imagined him, having wanted me all that time. His eyes in the dark cell. Hidden behind his mask in the Court. That he had felt it too, all that time. The pull. The tug of the threads of time that had sewn us together. I cut the thought short. It had been so long since I've thought of him. He had faded into a distant and painful memory-- a tender bruise that ached when I realized I was thinking of it. I glanced up at the bright grey sky and watched as a cloud rolled past the moon, leaving a dark navy hole. My breath rolled up to join it. There was a thump in the cask room and I shot onto my feet to inspect it-- assuming it had been rats again. The night was too dark and I groaned under my breath and retreated into the tavern to procure a rush. As I entered the tavern, Gilia walked closely by me and widened her eyes, a signal of an unpleasant occurrence.  
"Gilia? What's the matter?"

My eyes went to the one crowded table in the room, where a group sat, throwing three dice onto the table in front of them in a game called raffle. Over the backs of the heads of men seated, bent over the table, I saw the strong and sunken face of Owain. What was left of my heart from running into Danoir crept into the back of my chest and fell to the bottom of my stomach.

I kicked at myself inside, for having counted so many of my blessings prematurely. Maybe there was a way to avoid the eyes of the bandit for the evening. As the crowd cheered for someone who rolled a high number, I ducked below the keep and procured a rush, lighting it off of one on the keep bar. With my head turned to the side, I quickly moved out the back door of the building. Frustrated, my insides screamed silently and I kicked at an empty bucket, sending a hen flapping its wings in alarm. Richeut propped open the back door.  
"Girl! What are you doing? Bring in the ale!" she commanded.  
"I'm coming." I grunted back to her. I left the rush light on my post and rolled a cask towards the door reluctantly.

I took one last heavy sigh before entering the tavern. This time, I felt Owain's eyes on the side of my face. The group cheered once again for one of the players of dice, and I tried to make myself small as I helped Richeut lift the large barrel behind the counter. All too aware of him behind me, my hands shook as I steadied the tankard and placed a stein beneath its cork stopper. When I turned around, our eyes met and he stared at me intently. I walked over to the table and set the stein down near where the men had been throwing the dice. Many of them ignored me, save for Aistan and the others who had all been in his company who looked to me or the ground, or to one another. Owain's dark stare softened my heart unwillingly, his eyes hungrily taking in my face.

Reading my expression he turned to Aistan, who sat beside him."I told you she would not be happy to see me." He placed his palm out and Aistan dropped a livre into it from his purse. I looked down, but smiled in spite of myself. Osane glanced at me from the bench, she sat between Aistan and another one of Owain's men. Her eyes were filled with something that half resembled pity, or perhaps understanding.

"And what of our agreement?" As he asked me, he threw his dice to the table that lay before me and all three hit the table, rolling him a bad score. He winced and slid the livre back to Aistan. My eyes went even further away.  
"I..." I began, my voice sounding terribly weak all of a sudden, it was nearly drowned out by Aistan's roll of the dice, which was equally as bad, and he handed a few livres back to Owain and swore under his breath. I clenched my jaw, growing tired of explaining myself twice in one day, justifying my life to men who only seemed capable of trying to control it.

"Very well. I understand." Owain had said, but when I looked up into his eyes the frozen dark blue of them stirred angrily, like waves in a storm. As I went to turn away from him he stopped me. "But! Of course, with what you owe to me, you have racked up a handsome sum by now." He said, holding the dice tightly in a leather fist. I turned back to him slowly, my eyes low, daring him to continue. "And I'm not one to rob a poor tavern wench for her earnings. Even one who has clearly grown so pale from her time in the Catacombs." His voice now twinged with spite. Catacombs? What did Owain know of my time in the Catacombs.

The men awaiting his turn on the dice grinned as he said this. I remained frozen in place, mind racing between thoughts of Danoir, the catacombs... Owain. I hadn't told anyone about Clopin, about the Romany, about Frollo. For all they knew I was a peasant who Owain dragged from a forest and brought to the Sign of the Sun, impressed by my abilities to steal from him while he slept. Osane's eyes were wide, but she kept her mouth firmly shut, helplessly watching the scene. I could feel Gaila's nervous glances from a bench on the other side of the tavern.  
"I'll tell you what..." Owain began, watching his hand as the dice fell from one finger to another. "We each roll once. If your score is higher, your debt will be gone. But if I score higher, our agreement stands. Accord?"  
The smug confidence that had made him seem so charming once bit me in the behind, almost like a mockery. See what you get... I thought. I tightened my hand into a fist and clenched my jaw. But then, I uncurled my fingers and lifted the corner of my skirt, sitting down across from him.  
"That's a very generous offer... your Grace..." I said quietly, looking up to him. His eyes cleared a bit, the storm clouds lifting, the side of his mouth turning into a smirk. The men with him once again snickered as I said so, and Osane shot me another look of pity.

Owain opened his hand but did not bring it closer to me, making me lean across the table and take the three stone dice from his hand. The brief contact sent disobedient chills up my back. Part of me had been waiting so long to see him again... I shook it from my mind and turned the dice in my hand, dropping them to the table abruptly. To my surprise, two of the dice stared up at me with the same number, and a smile crossed my face as the men celebrated the high score. In Raffle, this had generally meant the victor, as it was a true gamble that the opponent's roll would be higher. Owain looked at them, disappointment in his face. He grabbed them curtly off the table, pushing his emotion far off his face with great difficulty and rolled them in his hands for a moment, before offering his fist to Aistan to blow on them for good luck. Grins spread across the table and bit down on my tongue to keep the infectious charm from inflicting my own. 

Then, as he stared into my eyes, Owain released the dice onto the table, throwing them towards me. As the third one rolled over slowly, I frowned sharply, as all three dice lay with the same numbers face up, a score that could beat no other. He smiled kindly as pats were given to his back, but I could not look up at him. As men slammed their steins together in celebration of returning to the game, I stood abruptly and went towards the back of the tavern, feeling Osane's eyes as they followed the floor beneath me.

Out in the courtyard I groaned and pushed myself against the back of the wall- infuriated, embarrassed. I ran my fingers through my hair and scratched at my head, hearing the wooden door to the courtyard creak open. I turned to the tall figure who now stood in the doorway.  
"I did not know how long I would be... We were in-" he had begun, but I sighed heavily, interrupting him.  
"Owain Lawgoch. Red hand, the sleeping King of Britons." I mimicked the deep voice of the Guernseyan man who had visited the tavern. He was silent, I tilted my head back and looked to the cloudy winter sky, quietly watching each exhale rise towards it.

"Do you wish I had told you?" He said finally and I turned to him, still seated on the stone, cold ground. I wasn't even sure. I wish many things had been different. That I hadn't slid my hand into the wrong pocket that one day, or maybe, that I had stayed in the Court, and known for certain that Clopin would have not chosen to go with me and to leave Paris. In many ways, it felt like I had left one cage for another since the day I had first left England.

Owain leaned against the wall, his dark eyes nearly level with the straw that cascaded down from the roof, cloaked in shadows of the courtyard. I pulled myself up to my feet."I wish I was you. I wish there was somewhere I knew I should be, and that I had the freedom to go there." I walked towards him, but my eyes stayed on the sky above us.  
"Instead, the greatest life I can have would be to stay here, and grow old as a tavern's wench."  
"Freedom to go as one pleases. You sound like a group of _vagrants_ I know." Owain's voice was low and hesitant. My eyes snapped to his face, fear seeping into my gut.  
"Is that not all vagrants?" I responded, avoiding revealing anything more. Even in the darkness, I could feel him searching my face for some truth.  
"Are you not happy here? Have I brought you somewhere worse off than when I found you?"  
"Found me?" I laughed. "I asked you for a passage into England. I suppose I now know why you were unable to meet that request."  
"So you're not happy, then? They've been cruel to you here? I should have left you in the woods to be eaten by bears, or dropped you off in another filthy hamlet to meet some brutal end or miserable life at the hands of whatever vile creatures lived there? At least here, you have a life. A woman in your position should be so lucky to grow old at all." He pushed himself off the wall and turned his back to me, staring out into the empty courtyard.  
"You wouldn't understand."  
"If you were just a singlewoman, a peasant from the fields, I would have saved your life. You told me that you were a thief in households here, once. What happened to your hand?" His voice had grown short, demanding. There was a fear behind it, and I wasn't sure where it had come from. I felt his stare shift over his shoulder.

I carefully glanced down at my hand, which still sat wrapped in a clean bandage that I had been changing every so often. It suddenly ached a phantom ache that gripped it. I saw the girl, all those years ago at the manor. I saw the burning brand searing into her wrist, I saw the blood. I saw the cold eyes of Frollo, staring at me. I must have been silent for a long time.  
"Very well. I suppose I didn't tell you who I was, either. Do you wish to know me, thief?"  
"Wish... I wish you men understood what it feels like to be left behind, and that we are not animals, playthings or prizes to be won in dice." The dry lump in my throat nearly cut out my voice.  
"Men..." He said after a moment "You have kept busy here, then?" Jealousy stung in his voice.  
"No, I haven't!" I snapped. His eyes darted away from me, shame crossing his expression even in the shadows. Clopin's eyes burned brightly in my memory before fizzling out into thin wisps of smoke. We stood silently in the courtyard for a moment, the cold starting to bite at my fingers and feet.  
"Do you have any reason to believe you might not be safe here..." His voice had now come to sound like a confession, soft and sad. I frowned, deeply.  
"This is the closest thing to safe I have ever felt." Before I could stop myself, I felt myself saying. "Except when I've..." it wasn't completely Owain's face that came to mind. But I remembered a feeling. That night in the tavern, in the woods. A night that felt long, long ago, deep, deep down below the city. "Been with you." I finished.

In the darkness, Owain's long arm reached out and pulled me into his tall frame. The side of my face pressed against the cool cloth of his chest.  
"Once I have our lands back, I will come for you." His promise hit my heart becoming another sword that stuck straight out of it. I didn't know if I believed him, or even if I cared anymore. I just wanted to feel as I did when we had been together, that I belonged somewhere, to someone. That someone wanted to keep me as theirs without trying to capture or possess me. I shivered in the darkness and stared up at him, he took my chin in his long fingers and brought my face gently in, kissing the corners of my mouth before finding my lips.

That night, I lay with him in one of the few beds in the tavern's chambers, while his men slept only a few yards away. My skin burned with the marks of his mouth, that had crossed my flesh and back again, and the roughness of his hands as they had grabbed at me, his large frame towering mine, fitting us together. The long dark hair from his head fell down my shoulder as he slept, his arm across my chest and his large hand in its resting spot on my breast. One of the shutters in the small window in the room had come loose and we had yet to replace it. I stared out on the shack in the courtyard, watching as Gilia crept into it, with one of Owain's drunken men from the tavern in tow, beneath the brightness of the quarter moon.

Owain and his men had left in the morning. Standing in the doorway to the tavern, he had looked into my eyes, and though said nothing aloud, his spoke of a sadness, trying to tell me that he intended to keep his promise. He had kissed me, deeply, holding both of my shoulders in his strong grasp. As the men left, he had turned back to look at me one last time, and I tried to keep his face and the feeling of his lips in my mind as he rode away. Gila and Osane stood on either side of me, waving, but I stood still in my place and watched the wisps of his hair licking in front of his dark blue eyes, looking back at me as he left. It had put a sadness in me that I had grown tired of feeling. I was unsure if the lost Prince of Gwynedd would return, and if he did, if I were intended to go with him, but watching as his back faded into view on the Paris street that morning, it felt like I watched a door closing in front of me. Once again, I felt left in the dark. Osane turned to me as they had all but vanished, giving me a gentle glance that reminded me of her own sad loss of love.


	31. Offre Sombre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crow and the raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was waiting for Frollo to come back... maybe he does here, idk?

Owain Lawgoch's dark blue eyes were fixated on the thief girl as she disappeared into the busy city street. They had spent the night in each other's embrace, their moans and sighs stifled as they tried to be as quiet as possible, their bodies fitting together on the well worn bed. Owain had spent most of the night trying to ignore the encounter with the Gypsy King before the two had finally been reunited. Clopin's voice stumbled through is head, from the moment he first set eyes on her again until he managed to pull his head away from her, his horse unrelenting on the busy Paris street. The girl had told him herself, she had felt safe. What had Clopin meant, to tell him that she wasn't. Owain did not love the frozen thought that someone else knew her. Especially not the slender, dashing King of Fools, whose deep brown eyes and soft tanned skin made Owain's sharp and angled features, the scar that crossed his long face, feel monstrous and terrible. How would Clopin have known her? The Romany didn't speak to outsiders. His mind tugged on different corners, trying to find the strand that may have connected them all. Why would he have risked his neck by coming to the tavern, while all of the King's guards were on watch for the slaughter of his people? To tell him that she wasn't safe. She had said that she had never felt more safe... except when she was...

The girl, laying on her back, her green eyes staring up at him turned his insides to a soft butter. He tried to push her out of his mind, resenting the cloud that had overtaken seeing her, possibly for the last time. He thought, if he were to take his place and reclaim his throne, liberate his country, he was not sure how he would return. He would be forever indebted to France, more than he already was. Would they ask him to marry into a family in France? Owain fantasized about bringing her back with him, keeping her close. But then her words would grip his mind and his stomach would sink. _And why do you think she would be happy with that _? He asked himself. _What choice does she really have..._ And then he'd think of Clopin again, it circled him in a vicious cycle. A thief, an English girl, a peasant, a Romany King, an exiled Prince. He passed them all back and forth, back and forth as they rode towards the Palace of Justice. __

__As they arrived, Owain and his men tied up their horses. Owain and Aistan went inside the palace's heavy wooden doors.  
"I don't understand why we are obliged to meet with this old... crow." Aistan said quietly to Owain.  
"He has the King under his foot. If we deny him, he'd probably kill us all. You do know they have dungeons here..."  
"What can one miserable, frail man possibly do to me." Owain smiled at Aistan, only to find his brow knit together in a stern seriousness.  
"I don't know... probably the rack to start..." Aistan continued to frown at his feet and Owain nudged him with his elbow. "At least they have deep pockets." Aistan smiled in response.  
_ _

__They turned down a hall in the Palace of Justice, both smiling to themselves when the piercing glare of Claude Frollo caused both of their faces to fall.  
"Frollo! Sir." Owain cleared his throat. Aistan bowed his head, stiffly.  
"Owain Red Hand of Gwynedd. Come with me." Frollo's dry voice sent shivers down Owain's neck, he could tell by the way that Aistan stared down to the floor again that he had felt the grip of fear as well. They entered his study. "Please..." Frollo gestured to the open door. Aistan went to it and closed it, resuming his place at Owain's side. Frollo's stare continued to pierce Aistan as he sat, unwavering, like the cunning, old crow that he was. Owain looked to Aistan and gestured to the door. Finally comprehending, Aistan reluctantly obliged, leaving the mahogany study and closing the door behind him. He dropped down carefully to hear through the key opening in the door.  
  
"You sent for us, sir?" Owain said once the two were alone.  
"Yes. So glad you could... attend. Eventually."  
"Apologies, Frollo. We were stuck crossing--"  
"Stop, please. I do not care, and we do not have much time." Frollo waved his words away with his thin and gnarled hand.  
"Of course."  
"There has been a menace here, in Paris. In France. For far too long. It's been years, years of my life I've spent trying to finally bring it to its end." The judge's voice dropped to a cruel murmur, forcing Owain to strain to hear his words. "Even your cursed wound of a mother country has managed to keep it where it belongs. Left to rot in the gallows." The vagrant could see the thoughts passing through Frollo's eyes, cloudy, shallow pools that thinly veiled a terrible rage. Owain Lawgoch frowned and Claude Frollo met his eyes, sensing his lack of understanding.  
"I fear you may have already been acquainted, with all the time you've been spending roaming the countryside fulfilling atrocities in the name of coin." Claude continued.  
"I fear I have not?" The exiled prince held his eyes, though it caused his chest to tighten.  
"Then perhaps you're not the right mercenary for the task. I would have thought even the lowliest of criminal filth had encountered a Gypsy in their day." Frollo stood abruptly and crossed over to the window. The soft light was immediately swallowed by his large black robes, the faintest bit reverberating from his bright, smoky eyes. Owain realized he had relaxed his face, his mouth now sat hanging open slightly. He caught himself and closed it.  
"You speak of a group of people who do not take kindly to outsiders. I have seen them, yes. Mostly elders, children. Traveling between--"  
"It is the neck of their King that I demand." Frollo turned so quickly, his glare so ferocious that Owain's hand twitched toward reaching for his sword, but he held it back with great effort. The words settled in his mind.  
"Their... king?" Owain saw Clopin walking away sadly from the tavern in his mind.  
"Yes. He is my prisoner. I had him in my grasp. Foolishly I believed he would lead me to more of them, but he disappeared from the dungeons. Likely with some trick, some dark... magic. It proved to me exactly how dangerous these fiends are. These putrid, festering..." Claude was gripping his desk, his teeth gnashing as he spoke to the tall man wrapped in black. The hollowed features of the outlaw which occasionally softened with a kind and crooked smile had all but emptied out. For a moment the fear took over, and Frollo saw a glimpse of Owain as a little boy, terrified by something in the dark. Claude caught himself, but reveled in turning the war-worn man, who could easily cleave the judge in half with the broadsword he kept close to his hip, into something meek and fearful. "These are not the passive elders and children who you speak of, they are cunning and powerful. Suddenly the city seems cleared of them, but I know _he_ still remains..."  
Frollo turned himself back to the window, allowing Owain's face to fall into relief for a moment, with all that Frollo was asking of him causing a disturbance still in his mind. He wanted him to ... bring him Clopin... The King of the Romany people. The man he had seen, just the night before for the first time in many, many years. Owain and the Romany had been in accord since as far back as he had first been forced to flee his home, by threat of the King of England himself. When Owain would rob the cart of merchants, he brought the rewards to the Romany in exchange for payment. Despite their affliction towards outsiders, Clopin had been reasonable and seemingly open minded towards the foreigner. And then there was the upsetting thought of...  
"He and... that thief." Frollo hissed over his shoulder.  
Owain looked up again, words and thoughts dropping dead in his mind. He waited, suspended in fear for Frollo to continue. "A girl. She posed here as a servant after being caught stealing from the home of one of my most trusted associates. Somehow she helped him escape the dungeon. Their lives both belong to me. I have far too much in mind to even entertain the idea that they might be roaming free... in _my_ city... Together..." The judge looked back towards the window. Owain's mouth had turned very dry, he struggled to swallow, or even remember how.  
"A girl... very well... and she is... one of their own?" His heart began to beat wildly, anticipating the response. And even though he had already suspected it--  
"One of yours. An English girl." Owain's heart sank with Frollo's words.  
"Frollo... Sir. I am a soldier... I'm not a... hunter, or an executioner."  
"And when the King pays you to fight against his enemies? Are you not an executioner then? What about the men that the King has sent with you across the sea to be slaughtered by your own for daring to stake your claim? The ones you lead into battle for you, who return as ghosts and skeletons so you can masquerade as a Prince of anything." Owain searched the grain of Frollo's desk for a response, his tightly wrapped heart began to ache.  
"The King has supported my claim and I will continue to fight for him... But the lives of a group of people--"  
"Lawgoch. If you do not do this for me, I will be sure to it that your debt to France be paid in full. Either in coin, or blood, whichever you have more of. We have reason to believe there is a hideaway for these vermin. Locate it, and you will find him. The girl may be harder to identify... I would look to her right hand, where I injured her. It is unlikely to have healed correctly." Owain saw the girl's hand, wrapped in bandages in his mind. He saw himself grabbing it, lifting it above her head as his mouth came down onto her neck and shoulder.  
Frollo then pulled a purse from his robes and threw it onto the table in front of him. It was the largest sum that Owain had seen at once from France, even during the years of war. He stared at it, his hand twitching for him to take it. "Go on, take it, you miserable excuse for a mercenary, and leave here. Do not return unless you have my prisoners." Frollo turned his back on Owain, knowing he had silenced the outlaw's protests with coin and the threat of violence. Owain felt the familiar twinge of defeat, knowing any further disruption could cause suspicion. Owain swallowed heavily again and grabbed the purse.  
"Good day, Frollo." Owain nodded.  
"May god be with you, Lawgoch of Gwenydd."  
  
Frollo watched the outlaw leave his study. The man who waited with him snapped to his feet as Owain's towering figure stormed out of the door and down the winding stairs of the Palace of Justice. Turning toward the great cathedral in the city's square, Frollo watched as Owain untied his horse. The tall man slowed as he did so, and Frollo could sense his awareness of Frollo's glare from the window where he stood, perched. Watching. _Good_ He thought... _Feel it_. Owain said something to his men, mounted his horse and they rode off together. Frollo shifted his eyes to the bell tower of Notre Dame, the afternoon sun gleaming off of one of its many bells. "For all you know you'll be taking me right to him..." He said faintly, in almost a whisper.  
  
Once out of view of the Palace, Owain stopped Aistan as they rode through the city streets. "There's somewhere I need to go. Keep yourselves busy, but keep your ears up. I will find you tonight and we will leave before sundown." Owain kicked at his horse and rode away from the men. Aistan nodded and they parted ways.  
  
The sharp pain in the vagrant's chest had gotten worse and worse. It was excruciating. Every step of his horse's foot against the stone of the ground echoed through his ribs and skull. Clopin had been right. He kicked at his horse, urging it to go faster, as though he were kicking himself inside. _You are a fool... She didn't tell you anything, how could you have known? ... You didn't ask, would it have mattered?..._ Owain rode further and further until he found himself at the edge of the market. The alleys were so narrow, he had to drop down from his horse and squeeze through them. His black boots traced a path he remembered with ease, finally bringing him to a battered wooden door. Owain gripped it from its base and pushed up, allowing it to swing open. He closed it carefully behind him. Now in the pitch black of a suffocating empty stone shack, Owain removed a stack of crates and debris, clearing away the handle to a door built into the floor of the shack. He looked over his shoulder, waited, silent and still for a moment before bracing himself with his foot and pulling it open.  
  
The outlawed prince dropped to the shallow floor. Left on the wall was a rush light and flint, which he used to illuminate just barely the space in front of him. The shallow tunnel was several feet too short for him, he crouched uncomfortably as he began to pass piles and piles of human skulls, his broadsword scraping along the ground behind him as he did so. Owain placed the ebony leather of his hand in front of the flame to keep it from going out in the tunnel's stale air. Finally, the shallow tunnel lifted into a cavernous passage and the skeletons and graves began to multiply. Owain kept the rush lit, sweat now breaking out across his brow as he tried to concentrate on his footsteps as well as keeping his path visible. He turned a corner instinctively and in the distance saw the hazy blue light of the Court of Miracles. His heart twitched inside of him and he quickened his pace. Just as he could make out the horizon of the Court, something came up behind him and violently knocked the rush light from his hand.  
  
As Owain reached for his sword, a hand hit him across the face. Owain stumbled back, trying to catch his breath. Firm hands grabbed either side of his gambeson and threw him to the ground, just barely inside the Court where there was a dim amount of light. Owain blinked up at a Romany man, eyes as deep and dark as Clopin's. The man was taller and younger than the King of the Romany people. And seemingly stronger. Owain pulled himself to his feet when a dagger appeared at eye level.  
  
"Danoir." A voice came from the darkness.  
The man turned, startled and Owain exhaled a breath of relief as Clopin emerged from a tent with a torch.  
"It is that vagrant... the Red Hand." The strange man said, spitefully. Owain frowned at this. Clopin carefully emerged.  
"I thought your kind was actually capable of planning a sneak attack... Where are your men?"  
"No one is attacking you... yet... I came here to--"  
"You were instructed to never use that passage again, on pain of death, Lawgoch." Clopin bent over, locking the warm, dark pools of his eyes onto the frozen tides of Owain's. The outlaw looked around, everyone was gone. The tent that Clopin had emerged from was one of the only ones left.  
"They're all gone..." He said to himself.  
"Yes, they're gone. Our people are as welcome in France as you are in your own country. Now, like I was saying... on the pain of death, Lawgoch." Danoir twisted the blade closer to his neck. Even without any light, it seemed to glisten. Owain sighed and clamored to his feet to the two men's enjoyment.  
"And I would assume you'd be leaving as well..." Owain spoke mostly to himself, but Danoir, still clutching the dagger and Clopin frowned deeply, confused. "What, may I ask is keeping you?"  
"Did he come here to die?" Danoir cursed under his breath.  
"Frollo sent me..." He finally explained, his own breath catching up to him. Danoir lowered the dagger, surprised. Clopin laughed.  
"Oh, did he? Well you can have the pleasure to tell that ancient cackling corpse that he has lost. There are no other Romany left in Paris. We have survived."  
"He knows. He sent me for you and..." Owain looked to the dirt of the ground beneath him, then carefully up to Danoir. "The girl."  
Danoir's eyes licked like a flame and he cursed in his own tongue. Danoir spun back to Clopin and began to yell in their language, words Owain could not understand.  
"I told you, this is what I told you about! You miserable--" Danoir finally spat.  
"Danoir!" Clopin silenced his nephew with a glare. Then the Romany King turned to Owain.  
"What girl?" Clopin asked, carefully.  
"You told me she was not safe."  
"And I told you to do something about it." Clopin took a step towards the mercenary. Frustration came to a head inside of Owain and he pulled his broadsword out and aimed it at Clopin.  
"I am." The two men stared at each other, down the long, cold steel of Owain's blade. Owain studied the man's face. He tried to imagine the girl thief and the Romany King together, her arched back and flushed skin pressed to his. He couldn't see any of himself in the other man, as much as he tried. As much as they were both unwanted, vagrants, outlaws. Clopin's soft features made the scar tissue that crossed Owain's face and back twinge with resentment. The tip of his sword was aching to carve into his handsome face. "Would you go to him... to save her..." He finally asked, so quietly that Danoir craned his neck to try and hear better.  
"Would you?" Clopin answered softly in return. Owain lowered the sword before pulling his piercing eyes away from the man.  
"We are leaving, tonight. It will buy you some time. You will have to do the rest." Owain turned sharply and began to walk back towards the narrow passageway, looking to the ground for his rush light. Clopin frowned deeply at him and followed behind his towering frame.  
"There is nothing that can be done. We are leaving here, too. If Frollo has paid you to come for me then we have no choice but to leave or die."  
"And there's nothing more that can be said-- she is in danger, and you will have to help her."  
"Lawgoch, if _you_ are unable to--" Owain stopped searching and grabbed Clopin by his shirt, roughly lifting him off of his feet.  
"Am I to believe that you brought this girl into the Palace of Justice, had her steal from Claude Frollo to help you escape from the dungeon only to have you let her be hunted and killed for coin?" Clopin stared down at the man who held him forcefully. The crimson crack that ran across his face narrowed his frown even deeper. "And here I feared that you might actually have loved her. But how would that be possible?" Owain dropped Clopin back onto his feet. Anger burned in both of their cheeks. Owain located his rush, his long black cape twisting behind him as he turned quickly again. Clopin stood and watched the bandit go, he felt Danoir fuming behind him.  
  
"What is it, Danoir." Clopin kept his eyes on Owain's wide shoulders, shrouded by his thick cloak as they loomed down the cavernous tunnel of the catacombs, growing smaller with each of his steps. He heard Danoir exhale, frustrated.  
"So this strange man beckons and you have to risk your life?" Danoir's voice shook.  
"It has nothing to do with Lawgoch."  
"Have you not done enough for the girl? Was it not decided that she should be left--"  
"Nephew. Why do you worry so much for my life? It is my own to give and lose as I please. Is this not why you told me of her?"  
"No! I thought... you would want to see her... again. That it would make you happy."  
"And all of this would have been for nothing if they find her. I might as well have left her in the cell or turned her in just as you and everyone else has been telling me I should have."  
"We need you, Clopin. Your people still need you--"  
"They don't. They are safe now and Vadoma would not allow me to do much else. I have done all that I can for them. I have given everything I've ever had including my own freedom. Including..." Clopin looked away. "Her."  
"I won't have any part in this, if you're going to get yourself killed you'll do it alone." Danoir was grasping, Clopin could see it in his face. He realized only then that the young man might not even have been truly talking to him, but talking to the ghost of their since lost relative.  
"And I'm not sure why you would even mistake an invitation."  
"My father would not have allowed me to let you--"  
"Your father." The Romany King silenced Danoir once again. He stepped closer to his nephew, whose eyes were wrapped in flame. "Would be very... proud of you, Danoir." The face of the young man fell out of anger for a moment, slipping into a great sadness. Clopin managed to smile back at him. "Besides, how are you so sure I will die?"  
Danoir's eyes flared and he turned his back on the man, walking away through the abandoned Court. Clopin's eyes felt suddenly very heavy and he dragged them, slowly towards the spot on the far end of the Court where the English thief had once been kept on the end of a chain. He suddenly could almost envision the chain stretching through the yards of catacombs, up through the Paris streets. It tugged, raw and bloody somewhere inside of him, and he could feel the other end, wrapped somewhere around inside of her, tugging back.  
  
Owain walked his horse alone down the street of Paris. Some turned their head as he passed, his dark features and the crimson mark almost reading his position as a vagrant, an outlaw, aloud. He stopped as the Sign of the Sun came into view. Owain's eyes traced the symbol in the wooden marker that held above the door. His feet and legs twitched and ached as he realized he could not go any further, his hand beginning to itch, to continue, to open the door, to see her again. Owain stood silently for a moment, reaching somewhere inside of himself. He felt as though he were leaving something behind, hoping that maybe she would be able to feel it too. He placed his black leather boot in the stirrup and rode away from the Sign of the Sun, truly not knowing when he would ever be able to return. _ _


	32. Le départ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man at the tavern door

I tried to pick things back up the way they had been, but everything had come to feel disrupted and unsettled, unlike it had been before. I spent my days brewing beer just as I had done, meticulously trying to get each tankard the best that I could make it. Richeut had been pleased with my involvement in this part of her business, and seemed to mind less that I had begun stealing more infrequently, happy that she could spend long nights off her feet. I tried to make myself at her service the most, wanting to stay at the tavern. Having spent half the year in Montereau, and having felt fear that had gripped me when I suddenly had to leave, I didn't want to find myself back on the streets once again, growing more desperate each time I had to move myself to a new situation. I had grown tired. I felt like I had been broken down over and over, and each time putting myself together, trying to remain hopeful grew increasingly difficult.

All that was left of my journey that began that one day in the market, to the Palace of Justice, and into the Court of Miracles were my crippled fingers, and what had become a dark pink scar near my ankle. I made a point to keep the bandage fixed, tightly, as looking onto it only brought me sadness. It was as though I looked into the past, and could see the hateful eyes of Frollo as he had slammed the iron gate of the dungeon cell onto it. By looking at my own hand, I remembered far too much, and I had made peace with the end of that story time long ago, when I had seen Danoir in the market. I realized he had told me what I had needed to hear that day. It was what Jaelle had told me on my final night in the Court- that my time with the Romany people left me forgotten, that he had left and would never return.

One evening began the same it always had, late that winter. The cold winds once again brought promises of spring, and the faint and distant smell of warm earth and new leaves. I had spent the afternoon pouring new batches of beer into the large casks, leaving them to sit and exchanging them in the tavern with older tankards. That night, there were many in the tavern as a group of merchants had arrived in Paris. The fresh blood had aroused excitement in the many city vagrants who drank with us every evening- someone to tell the same drunken story to, or a new story to hear, so that they could then tell us that one until a new batch arrived. The mood had been jovial in the small city tavern, laughter erupted from every table. Osane led a young man by the hand upstairs, a seductive smile across her face. Richeut had taken a seat with her neighbors, her face turned pink from laughter and a few steins of her her own ale.

It was then that a feeling seemed to pull the air from the entire room. I glanced around, something was not right. I felt eyes burning through me and turned to the door. A figure stood to my left, in front of the tavern entrance. Dark brown eyes blazed through a purple mask, hidden in the darkness of a large black hood. I felt myself turn white. No... it couldn't have been. For a moment, I had no heart beat, I think I ceased to live entirely. Someone crossed in front of the figure, and as they passed, it had vanished. It left me standing, staring at the entrance way, terrified. Gilia came up beside me, leaning over to the cask to refill steins with ale.

"Is everything alright?" I had heard her voice say to me. I nodded a response, still unable to find words and Gilia cocked an eye to me, but left with her hands filled with overflowing beer steins. Had this been an apparition? But why? Managing to look away from the door at last, my eyes crossed the tavern, scanning over the faces of the people who I believed truly had been there. That was when I saw him.

Gilia set a stein on a table and moved away to sit down on a bench. Behind her sat a man, slightly hunched over from a night of drinking. Unlike much of the clientele that evening, he was well kept, a clean mustache sat on his upper lip. Casually, his eyes crossed my face, but then returned sharply. Once again, I felt myself turn white, as Jacques Desmarias, the bailiff whose home I had narrowly escaped to that fated day in the market, stared back at me. I turned quickly, but felt it had been too late. He had seen me, had he recognized me? I was afraid to look back at him. Desmarias had been a confidant to Frollo, he had reported me to the judge himself, and this had been how Frollo had known I was not the servant sent from the monastery at Notre Dame. It had been so long since I had seen him, I wasn't sure if he would have remembered my face. Perhaps he had forgotten. But the publicity that surrounded our escape, and how Frollo's search for Clopin and I had caused harm to Romany in Paris, ran through my mind and suddenly I feared for my life.

My hands began to tremble severely, and I couldn't get a thought straight of what to do. Instinctively I walked to the back door, to get away from his eyes, I pushed the door out to the court yard and moved quickly to the shack where I slept with Osane and Gilia. Hastily I ripped my cloak from where it lay and pulled it over my shoulders. I quickly slid my cowl back over my head and tucked all stray hair up into it, tightening it in place. Then, I reached up in between the pile of hay of the loft and pulled down the dagger and sheath, sadly. I held them in my hand, feeling the weight of the weapon before strapping it to my leg. The dagger felt begrudging, like an old foe, neither of us were happy to be reunited with the other. Taking a few deep breaths, I tried to steady my hands and calmly walk into the tavern, though I still had no plan for escaping the bailiff.

As I carefully opened the back door to the tavern, I saw that his seat was suddenly empty. Trying not to rouse more suspicion, I searched the room for him, delicately. I feared maybe he had left to bring a guard to the tavern. Looking to Richeut, my heart twisted thinking of something happening to her, or Osane and Gilia. My heart twisted further thinking of Frollo standing in the doorway and the havoc he could wreck. What will panicking help you accomplish? He may have just left to relieve himself... I told myself, the steady, deep beating of my heart came like a funeral drum. I approached Richeut, seated with her neighbors. Move faster, there isn't much time. I tried to silence the many contradictions of my own voice in my head.  
"Richeut, you have to look after the keep for awhile I..." Richeut stopped herself in the midsts of a laugh, happy tears poking at her rosy cheeks. She looked at me, puzzled.  
"Where do you have to be? At this hour?"I hesitated, unsure of what to say, but looked at her, seriously.  
"I will explain later..." was all I could say. Richeut looked at me, before turning away, silently. She likely did not want to know, and was concerned that there would be trouble. She would have been right. I did not say goodbye to Osane or Gilia. I just silently prayed that I wouldn't have had to and stepped out onto the dark and empty streets of Paris well after curfew.

The moon hid behind heavy clouds, making it hard to see anything in the cold Paris night. A sound of horse hooves caused me to turn and look down the vacant street. I started walking quickly in the other direction, eyes fixated behind me where the sound had come from. I wasn't paying attention as I turned a corner and stepped into the towering, long face of a dark steed. Gasping, I turned around and my eyes darted to the man who stood holding its reins. Jacques Desmarias stared at me from foggy, drunken eyes.  
"I thought that was you... the little English servant." His familiar voice oozed from his lips. Shivering involuntarily, I stepped back from him. "The little thief..." he stumbled forward. "Frollo is a sharp one. I didn't think there was a point in waiting at that filthy hole of a tavern... but he was right, I give him that credit... I know about you and those people. Those vermin. Take me to them, or I will see to it that you are broken." He slurred a smile and stepped towards me.  
"Sir you... are mistaken me for someone else... I know you not."  
"A thief and a liar." The bailiff was suddenly upon me. He gripped my wrist in his and began to rip at the bandage that surrounded it. "He told me to look for this." I tried to rip it back from him but he held it, grip tightening.  
"Let go of me!" I shouted. Desmarias began to pull harder at the bandage, revealing more of the twisted fingers that hid under it. Tears ripped at my eyes. He tugged on the bandage, bringing my hand towards him and grasping my hip, holding me. I squirmed in his arms and he tightened them again, now placing his face on the crook of my neck and breathing deeply. Hot chills ran up and down my spine, my stomach folded in on itself in disgust. Jacques reached up and pulled off my cowl, sharply. My hair fell down around my shoulders, burying his face against my skin.  
"You can protect him all you want, little dove, but Frollo will have your neck tonight. And I will take my turn." Desmarias momentarily weakened his grasp on my hand and I writhed it free. With all of the strength it had left in it, I dragged my nails across the face of the Bailiff, feeling the queasy sensation of his skin pulling out from under them. Desmarias stepped back, clutching his face and some of my hair. I pulled it back from him, painfully, turned sharply and ran, hearing the man's cry after me, followed by the sound of him mounting, then kicking his horse. The sounds of fast hooves approached rapidly as cobblestone smacked on the bottom of my feet.

All thoughts had left me now. My breathing was heavy, a wheeze erupting as I deeply inhaled the cold night air, each step sending pain through my ankles, up my legs and into my knees. The stones were wet from the melting snow, and ice clung to them ferociously. I ran without knowing which direction I was going in or where, nothing but the sounds of the rapidly approaching iron of the horses hooves hitting the stones below, and the sharp pain of my lungs sucking in the winter. Tears streamed down my face, making it even more difficult to see, but I still ran as fast as I could.

After running for a few of the sleeping city blocks, I remember thinking that I must have slipped. I felt the world fall out from beneath my feet, I felt myself being lifted and everything had become much darker, but there had been no impact. The world was just dark and warm, it felt like it was holding me in place. In a blink, I opened my eyes to the dark, but there was no Paris street in front of me, just a dark wall barely a hand's width away from my nose. My chest heaved with heavy breaths, but I realized that a leather grip forcefully covered my mouth. Another arm was snaked around my stomach holding me in place against the far wall. The feeling of these arms were so familiar, I felt as my heart slowed down beneath their grasp. Had Desmarias caught me? Where was I? My senses returning to me, I realized I was in between two buildings, just off of the street where we I had been running. I heard the rapidly approaching hooves of Desmarias' horse. I squirmed in the grasp and raised my arms to pry the hand away from my mouth, when the side of a face pressed itself to my cheek, lips grazing my ear.  
"Don't... make... a sound..." the voice said, in a whisper so low, I was unsure if it had come from my own mind. My eyes widened in the darkness, recognizing the voice, the smell of their skin, even the feeling of their lips as they barely touched to my ear.

The arm that held me in place reached down between my legs and pulled my dagger from its sheath on my calf. Tears rolled over Clopin's hand, as it covered my mouth in its strong grip. I wanted to wimper, to plead. No, not by his hands, please... my own voice came back to my mind, but as he withdrew the dagger he held it low in his free hand, keeping my mouth covered as I shuddered with silenced sobs.

Desmarias' horse had quieted, and all was still in the tiny alley between buildings where Clopin held me. Jacques stumbled slightly into view through the opening onto the street, and before I knew what was happening, I fell to the ground, hitting my shoulder on the way down. I gasped as I fell and looked up as my elbow found the hard cobblestone street. I lay on my side at Clopin's feet, my hand held up in a defensive pose. Clopin now held the bailiff in the same way he had held me, one hand gripping the man tightly over his mouth. Both men stared at me in the darkness, with distinct but somehow similar expressions reflected in their eyes. Before I could take another breath, Clopin brought my dagger up to Jacques' neck. I shielded my eyes and heard a small sound, like a sigh one would make in their sleep, coming from Jacques. Blood splattered across me, a warm drop hitting my cheek. The man fell first to his knees, and then forward, onto my leg.

Speechlessly, I stared up at Clopin. His eyes turned like smoke from a fire and he swiftly lifted my dagger up and wiped it clean with a cloth that he dropped back onto the man. I noted an embroidered "JDM" on the corner of it as it fell delicately onto Jacques' corpse. Clopin first flipped the dagger so the hilt was facing me then and extended it towards my hand but I remained on my side, unmoving. Even as the weight from Jacques' head had begun to sink in, and I felt as blood pooled onto my leg from his mouth, I stayed, staring up at his face.

I felt as though I was looking at a ghost... or that I had been mistaken. There was no way it was him... He had been long gone, why should he have come back? And if it were him... How had he known where to find me? My breath was shallow and steady, feeling as though I was gasping for air. Slowly my eyes focused on the handle of the dagger and I reached for it, grasping its wood and steel end and bringing it towards myself. I looked from the dagger to Jacques' body, still unable to say anything.

Clopin reached forward and lifted me up by my under arms, standing me up against the wall. I watched his face carefully, the heaviness that had formed in his eyes. He wouldn't stay on my face, but I couldn't look anywhere else but onto his, still covered by the dark purple mask. He took the dagger back from my weak grip and slid it into its sheath on my calf.

"We have to go." his voice was low, and hushed, and had a darkness to it. I nodded slightly, glancing at the man's corpse in the alley.  
"Where?" I muttered, quietly.  
"Follow me." Clopin said. He pulled both of our hoods up over our faces and darted out into the city streets. Moving swiftly, I let exhaustion and disbelief take over, not even knowing how I was still moving. Clopin lead me by the arm, keeping me close to him, as we weaved through the city. As we approached a tall, familiar building, the sounds of guards on their horses filled the streets in the distance. Clopin brought me to the building where I had waited after coming up from the Court of Miracles. My legs went heavy as I realized that was where he now lead me, and I almost wanted to pull away from him, to run in a different direction. Not back there... I thought. But I couldn't even try to pull my grasp from his. I was in a trance, my entire body allowing him to take me where he wanted. He went around the back of the building and we climbed through a lower window frame in the decrepit former home.

Once we were both through, Clopin moved a pile of wooden boards to fill in the hole we had come in through. I stepped back and looked up into the space, feeling transported back to when I had been there last. Had I come all this way, just to return to the Court? Clopin climbed up a wooden beam in the building's structure and reached for my hand. Once he held it, he pulled me up with him to a second storey in the building. He carefully crossed the floor to a large window in the frame, covered by a piece of cloth. Clopin leaned his slender shoulder against the wall and looked out through a slit in the fabric.

I stood staring at him, trying to get ahold of all that had happened. Clopin had killed Jacques Desmarias. He was dead... the guards had been called, looking for us, or, looking for me anyway. Clopin was not gone. He was standing in front of me, flesh and bone. Clopin glanced at me from the side of his eye.  
"You're welcome..." he said, his voice low. I blinked at him in the dark of the building.  
"What?" Words had become distant sounds, without meaning. I tried to focus on what he had said.  
"For saving your life... again..." Clopin continued to stare out onto the city. Sadness and a bit of anger dropped inside of me. I was not sure he had saved my life at any point, having also been the most constant danger in it. But he had killed Desmarias, and I was not sure what would have happened if he hadn't been there.

Why had he been in Paris? How did he know where to find me?  
"...Danoir..." I said quietly, feeling his eyes turn to me once again.  
"Do not give my nephew so much credit... I have known, long before you saw him, that you were at the sign of the sun. " his voice carried across the dark, empty room.  
"But...how?" I took a step closer to him, yet he sat still in the window frame, avoiding my eyes. He was quiet for a moment.  
"There was a story, about the outlaw Red hand and the servant thief who had bested him, in the forest."  
As he spoke, I had begun to feel more present. That he was real, that we were standing only a few feet from each other. I glanced to his arm, and saw that the place where my dagger had cut him, the last time I had seen him, had been sewn shut. The cut had made a small scar on the sleeve of his tunic. "And then I saw you for myself."  
"Owain..." I said quietly. Clopin froze his gaze out the window.  
"Yes. Quite the thoughtful plan. Escape a mad judge who calls for your death, a mad Romany Queen who calls for your death just to return in the arms of an outlawed Prince."  
I frowned at Clopin. "I had no choice. I was stuck in a filthy throop in the middle of the woods with barely a livre to my name. I was trying to return to England."  
"No choice but to whisked away by some boorish mercenary."  
"Owain was kind to me, he helped me, he was--"  
"I have no interest in arguing with you about the qualities of your lover."

My heart stirred at the mention of Owain, at hearing Clopin call me his... I was pulled away by his words. He had seen me himself? Had he been watching me, this whole time? A memory of the apparition of him in the tavern earlier in the night came to my mind.  
"And what about you? Danoir said you had left-"  
His sigh interrupted me.  
"Yes. Danoir was lying. I will be the last one to leave... any day now..." I was unsure if he had even been looking at anything through the space in the burlap cloth and the window, or if he had been doing so that he would have somewhere to look that was not at my face. His voice sounded short, impatient. Like he didn't want to be there with me at all. And yet, he stayed by the window. I thought to Jaelle, had she been punished for helping me? Had Vadoma-  
"And Jaelle?" I asked, afraid to see his response. He was silent. "Did she-"  
"The old woman is fine." He said, frustration biting at his tongue. "She survived the journey, and has made it to Spain." Relief washed over my heart thinking about Jaelle being happy, somewhere warm, somewhere new. I wanted to ask about the other Romany, had they all survived? Had anything bad happened to them on their journey out of Paris? But horse hooves and the sound of guard's voices filled the streets below, and he glanced down. My heart beat nervously, and visions of the tavern being raided took over in fearful premonitions.  
"I have to return to the-" It was only then that Clopin turned sharply to me, eyes burning at my face.  
"If you return, you, and all who remain, will be hung." His words slipped over my head and snapped tightly around my throat. The floor felt as though it fell out from beneath me and I slowly rocked in front of him, my voice choking in my chest.  
"I can't..." Tears fell out my eyes once again. Clopin had seen the change in my demeanor, his expression switched from partial surprise, then taken into sadness as he looked away. Anger grew within me and I moved towards him.  
"Why? Why did you come?! To save me from the life that I finally wanted?" I cried. He shot to his feet.  
"No- to save you from being tortured and hung in the city square!"  
"I told you to stay away from me!" I responded, my damaged hand twitched and formed a decrepit fist the best that it could.  
"You don't think I tried?!" He shouted, stepping towards me. "I was never supposed to see you again. There have been so many who told me to leave you, and finally when I listen you put yourself right back in the middle of the city, waiting on a hook for the one man I had been trying to spare you from. No, thief. I will not apologize for saving your life."  
"What is the point of living if I have nothing to live for?" My voice grew low, almost in a growl, anger spilling out from my lips which were twisted down on my face, tears dripping off of them.

We were standing face to face now, so close together. Like it had been possessed, my wounded hand lifted to strike him but he grabbed my wrist, holding it above my head. I strained to push through his grip, and he strained to hold me there. I had grown stronger since I had been in the Court where I had been sick, starved, weakened by my time chained to a wall, and I felt that his reaction was unprepared. My shoulders shook with sobs as he held me. Frowning at me, he watched as I cried quietly in his grasp for a moment. His face was now almost pressed to mine, and his eyes were focused intently on my face.  
"You left me." He whispered, his voice harsh. I frowned at his words and opened my eyes, meeting his now. "You... ran away. You were mine...You had me..." He continued. His eyes pulled me into their dark pools, their expression reminding me of as they had been in the market that cold day- angry and hurt.  
"I had nothing." I cried back to him. "You would have risked your life, the lives of your people, for me?" I asked him. Clopin frowned, the grip tightening on my wrist. "And If I had stayed? To be your pet? Your slave?" I stared into his eyes as I spoke, watching them cross my face, trying to understand each word. "You should know more than anyone that that is not a life!"  
I ripped my hand back from his. We stood, almost touching and now breathing heavily, silently in the darkness.

My eyes were closed tightly for what felt like a lifetime. The faces of so many people fell through my mind like sand through an hour glass, like river water over stones. Owain's crooked teeth falling into a smile, Jalle's sad eyes as tears fell from them. She disappeared into darkness, and Frollo's cold grey eyes rose like a phantom from ash, his lip snarled and his mouth opened to speak, but before it could, I saw Sabastien, the villein from Montereau, kissing his new wife's lips. As they drew closer together, Richeut's face replaced them, the happy tears sparkling above her pink cheeks, then Rhoda, reaching for Danoir's dagger, her eyes falling on me sharply, then the eyes of Jacques Desmarias, as blood spilled from out of his throat, glass coating them as they stared emptily above him before falling down. Finally, Clopin, standing behind him, the darkness swallowing me whole.

I opened my eyes and looked to him, his face had grown long and serious, and he quickly averted his eyes when I did so. The change in his face had come to show a look of sadness, of understanding, but of frustration. Upset swelled inside of me and I slowly fell to my knees, tears flowing freely as I thought of them all. Every one of the people who had lead me here. Your life is... Jaelle's words began in my mind but I stopped them abruptly, my hands falling to the ground before me, I arched my fingers and pressed my nails into the dirty wood.

"Please..." I managed to sob, quietly.  
"I'm..." Clopin's voice had softened, and he walked towards me, taking my face in his hands. The leather was warm against my cheeks. Tears held my eyes closed, but I felt his gaze as it searched for words across my face. He kissed my brow, which stopped my sob as my eyes opened. He moved down my face, kissing the corner of my mouth, pressing a tear into a small puddle. Sorrow filled his face, as we stayed like that, my face cupped in his hands. I was holding onto the front of his legs, I felt like a child all of a sudden, small and helpless and pleading with him.  
"I'm sorry." He said and I moved my lips to his. This kiss was unlike any other we had shared, and as it deepened, our mouths opening, one final stab hit my heart and it felt as though it had been the one to finally break it open, falling gently into pieces that lined my stomach.

I pulled on his sleeve, and he lowered himself, climbing on top of me, our mouths staying connected. My legs opened, making a space for him, pulling him closer to me and moving my hands to his face. I sighed a light breath as his hands ran up my thighs and grasped at my hips. Deep within me, I longed for him to be even closer, to be apart of me once again. His mouth found its way to my neck, he brushed aside my hair and kissed down my collar bone, pulling down the shoulder of my dress, then crossed the top of my chest . The leather of his fingers pulled at my bodice, letting it fall open and then stopped. Using his teeth, he pulled off the gloves from his hands and threw them aside. His warm hand slid into the front of my dress and ran down the side of my breast, while his other hand groped at my thigh under my skirt. I lay the back of my head against the floor of the empty home, allowing the heavy, pleasurable throbs to run through me with his every touch. Tears fell from my jaw, landing on my chest and sliding down towards his head. He did not look up, but continued to feast upon my skin with hot, wet, breaths.

Nothing seemed to matter now. His hands, his breath, and his lips were the only thing that reminded me I was still alive, laying on the floor in the musty darkness. I had thought he had been long gone, that he had forgotten. Seeing him again, even if it was truly for the last time, made me wish these could be the last moments I had on earth. I didn't think of what was to happen after, about the impossible uncertainty that had become my future, I didn't think at all. Only let the warmth of him wash over me in waves. He sat up, and adjusted his breeches. In an instant he was inside of me, a pleasurable moan escaping my lips. This time, he did not silence me, but used his hand instead to pull me further onto him, a gasp erupting from deep within me. All of Paris seemed to stand completely still now, fading around us. The very building itself could have been burning down around us, and I wouldn't have moved.

The warmth from between us grew stronger as I wrapped my arms around his neck, and his hands fell to the side of my ribs. As our breaths grew heavier and heavier, tension between us built. Then, as Clopin loudly gasped one final time, the largest bell of Notre dame rang out the first hour of morning, blanketing our breaths and the loud beating of our hearts with its heavy, warm tone.

I awoke to the sound of doves, humming in the early morning. Light reached its soft fingers through the many holes and cracks in the walls of the building. Clopin had slept behind me, on a pile of our cloaks, his arms wrapped around me. Now the space shifted and turned cool. The man, the chosen King of the Romany people, who hours ago filled me with his lean, strong body placed his hand flat on the ground in front of me, supporting his long arm. I felt his breath as he lowered his lips to my ear.  
"Your life... is your life..." he whispered gently, sweetness mixed with sadness as he repeated the words that Jaelle had told me the night I had left the Court. I frowned, my eyes focused on the far corner of the room. My sight became blurry as tears covered my eyes, but I remained staring straight ahead. I listened to the sound of Clopin, carefully pulling himself to his feet and crossing the room towards the hole in the floor where we had climbed up from the street level of the building, echoed coldly throughout the building.

Once his footsteps had left, I turned to my side, staring at the now empty space where he had slept.


End file.
